Clothes Make the Man
by Mrfipp
Summary: Varying ficlets inspired by the varying armor set and pieces of Dark Souls I and II. Each one will be 500-ish words.
1. Tattered Cloth

**Tattered Cloth**

 _Armor worn by pyromancers of the Great Swamp. Though it appears tattered, it is actually quite strong._

 _Their attire offers substantial protection against poison, fire, and other forces of nature out in the hinterlands where they were driven._

 _Boots made of thick leather. The boots of the pyromancers are incredibly tough, on account of the rugged grasslands and treacherous swamps they must traverse. Their soles are nearly impenetrable._

 _Magic is no show. It is an art that allows mere mortals to glimpse into the very fabric of what is and may be._

Laurentius trudged through the swamp, humid and wet, insects flying and biting around him, he looked around through the haze and trees, looking for a place to hide for the time being. If he could, he would light a flame in his hand to light his way, but he didn't want to give away his position to anyone else who might be around. Eventually he found a tree, a large dead one that had been hollowed out, and stepping out of the muddy waters and into it.

Now that he had was out of sight, he lit a small flame to keep himself warm and to dry his clothes. He himself was relatively dry, the thick cloths keeping a majority of the water and poisons out and away from his skin. He grumbled to himself and poked his head out of the dead tree, when he saw nothing and no one around he retreated back into the tree.

Finally taking a deep breath, he allowed himself to relax for the first time all week. Reaching up, he pulled at the beaded necklaces around his neck, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over them before he began to rub his thumb over the heavy cloth on his chest, feeling the calloused mark underneath.

They Pyromancer groaned in despair. This was not something he wanted, or needed in his life. Well, afterlife, now that he thought about it. He couldn't stay here, not anymore, not in the Great Swamp, he's have to leave his home, most likely forever. You couldn't cure the Undead Curse, it lasted until you went Hollow. As far as he could think he only had two options available to him; he could get caught and carted off to one of those asylums he'd heard about, where the Undead were sent, far from anywhere, thrown away to rot for eternity, and considering how lowly most of the surrounding lands looked down on the Undead, he really couldn't see too many places he could escape to.

With the exception of Lordran, of course. The land of the Undead, where it was rumored the curse originated, so many hundred of years ago. He wasn't too sure about that though, from what he heard the journey there was incredibly dangerous, with Lordran itself even more so. However, he really couldn't see much anyway around it. He could go to Lordran, and have to fight off who knows what sort of monsters and other sorts of horrible creatures, or get thrown away into some small cell for the rest of his undead life.

Then again, Lordran was the home of the Mother of Pyromancy. So that in itself might be worth it to go there, if he got the chance to meet her. He would give anything to meet that woman, even if for a minute.

Laurentius then pushed himself up and he began to move forward, through the swamp.

He'd meet her, even if it was the last thing he'd do.


	2. Targray

**Targray**

 _Armor of one who guides others._ _Belonged to Targray, Knight of the Blue_ **.**

 _Targray can appear obtuse, but the blue knight means no harm. He only wishes to offer guidance to those in need, for that is his purpose._

 _The Blue Sentinels have vowed to uplift themselves through tireless training and selfless adherence to order and justice. May this armor ease their difficult journey._

This land, this cursed land called Drangleic, certainly did not live up the the legends he had been told as a young boy, of heroes and legends, but was filled with dread and a decaying acceptance.

His halberd swung, and another of the massive knights fell to its knee with a loud rattle of armor, before its body vanished into flashes of light. With it gone, he pulled his weapon back onto his back and walked to the edge of the crumbling platforms, before stopping at the edge and looked to the rising sun, beyond the ocean's horizon. He scanned the around, turning his view back to the mainland, the high cliffs and the waves crashing them, and to the obelisk in the south, to the small rundown village where they had come from.

"Lord Targray?" said a voice from behind him. Turning around, the man faced a young woman, dressed in padded thick leather with sparse pieces of metal. She, like many of the people who had come here with him, was a disciple. "I've been told that you are needed near the cathedral, they've since fixed the mechanism that would lower the drawbridge to it, and the captain would hope you would join them in the entrance?"

"So, they've made it that far then, have they?" Targray said, folding his arms over his chest. "That is good, perhaps we can learn more about this city from there." He looked over to the massive church in the distance, where he could see his men at work. "From what ruins we've uncovered, the word "Heide" keeps being brought up, and it's very possible higher beings may have once resided here."

"Higher beings?" the disciple asked, curiously.

"Gods maybe, but I am doubtful if this city is possibly the one from legends, though I do believe there is a link." Facing away from the cathedral, he looked in the opposite direction, to the tower with the eternal flame atop it. "Either way, this seems to be the excellent location to establish our growing power in this cursed land. This fallen kingdom is filled with the damned, the corrupt, those who would take advantage on those who are weaker than themselves." He reached back and drew his halberd and slammed the butt of it to the ground. "From this ancient city, we shall begin out righteous quest of salvation and protection."

"Even from the Brotherhood?" the disciple asked, shrinking slightly at the name.

"The Brotherhood of Blood," Targray sneered. "Murderers filled with nothing but senseless bloodlust, they are the ones we face the greatest challenges from, and hopefully our mission here will lead us to wiping those heathens from the face of this world." He then began to make his way from the disciple, and began to approached a set of stairs. "Now come, we have much work to do."

The disciple followed.


	3. Xanthous

**Xanthous**

 _A mysterious item once worn by the Xanthous King Jeremiah, the legendary exile. No one knows where it came from._

 _The crown bears high-quality cloth which is quite soft to the touch, but its bright yellow color stings the eyes, and it is clearly far too big. Perhaps the heinously towering head cloth crown served some purpose, or perhaps it was some strange display of power._

 _It may be tattered, but its bright yellow color still stings the eyes._ _Despite the costume's being in near tatters, its yellow hues remain mysteriously unfaded._

The snow was cold and icy, a deep chilly wind filtered through the ruins of the castle, carrying the moans of the inhabitants with it. The damaged and the damned, those who have no place in the world, either because there is nowhere they can call home, or because they are wished to be out of sight and mind from the rest of the world. A place for those who had either lost their souls, or lost their minds, a home for the insane.

Why he, Xanthous King Jeremiah, was simply beyond him.

The memories of his imprisonment were a bit foggy, yes, but if he recalled correctly, it was unjust. Yes! Unjust! Dastardly as the pain in his head.

In the courtyard, the phalanx groaned in agony.

"Silence!" he called out. "We have had these discussions before, but I do not care for your opinions! My art is marvelous!" He looked behind him to one of the impaled corpses. "You are simply uncultured swine! As far as I am considered, you are no better than Her Whores!"

Numerous caws came from above.

"Yes, yes, I can hear you," he yelled to the dark sky. "Why do you not come down here and say that directly to me? It has been so long I have had roast bird!"

"But they started it!" he spun around, and pointed at nothing.

He stood still for a moment, his neck giving a switch twitch.

"No, I never said that. But it my duty here to protect My Dear Lady," he began after a short time. "Look at them, they are simply planning their next efforts." He gestured to phalanx, sluggishly shuffling around the statue of the Lady in her youth, and Her. Oh, how he hated Her.

How the Lady could have ever have spoken about Her with such niceties was beyond-

He clutched at his head, but his hands did not meet with skin or hair, but cloth, soft and warm underneath his fingers. Jeremiah than realized that he was being strangled, the air being taken from the lungs by a powerful force pushing itself around his entire neck and head. He began to choke, and cough, and grabbed at the wrappings, wanting to pull them off-

Suddenly his whole body seized, he could not move a single part of him. Every part of him was stiff and cold, and he suddenly felt as all his strength left him, leaving him to feel weak and empty.

 _You are mine._

Then suddenly, Jeremiah pondered on why he was exiled to this place. Perhaps they were simply jealous of his marvelous crown.


	4. Agdayne

**Agdayne**

 _ _Clothes worn by Agdayne of the Undead Crypt.__

 _ _Life itself is suffering; or karma, as some have called it.__

 _ _The embrace of death awaits all things, but does death mean an end to suffering?__

Everything around him is dark. Utter dark. Despite this however, he can see just fine, he can hear just fine. In the distant chambers, echoing through them, he can hear the far off noises of the dead, of Hollows and ghosts, and all else who call this place home. Everyone, will one day call this place, or at least something like it, home one day.

He remembers long ago, a time so very long ago, a time that he has heard been called The Beginning. The Great Dead One created him, and others as well, as it was customary by the Lords. The Lord of Light has his knights, clad in silver, wielding the power of sunlight, and then there was The Witch, with endless fire, the power of life itself, and her many children, each holding a margin of her own power. Then there was his creator, The Great Dead One, the Gravelord, who brought death to those who did not live, nor die.

In his mind he hears screams and despair, sorrow and regret. So many guests reside within these walls. So many things could be felt as life gives out.

He remembered the battles, ending the creatures from the skies and the gray.

Time passed, and the three civilizations grew, new part arose as the older parts withered and expired. It was with time that they all realized, all who bore Death, that there was no need for their own city, their own culture, their own people even.

They all die. Everything dies. People die. Kingdoms die. The Lord of Light died. The Witch died. Even the Great Dead One died. There are no exceptions, all who live will one day die.

But that had been so very long ago.

He still his duty however, it was what he was created for, but it was not something he was needed for. He did not take pride in his duty, nor did he wish for anything better, he cared not for anything beyond the walls of this crypt, nothing beyond the fact of death was of no interest to him.

Agdayne could still sense it out there, however diminished. The Soul of Death found by the Fire, was somewhere in the lands far above, permeating a weakened influence, to gather dead and death to it. It was not the Gravelord though, and thus of no concern to him. It would perish in time, just like the rest.

It did not matter who you were, how powerful, or rich, how smart of strong. In the end, death was the only absolute.


	5. Ornstein

**Ornstein**

 _ _Armor of the dragonslayer Ornstein, who guards the cathedral in the forsaken city of Anor Londo.__

 _ _Ornstein is believed to be the captain of the Four Knights. His golden lion helm is imbued with the power of lightning and should provide good protection against it.__

Protect thine Princess. Orders were orders, and Ornstein would follow the last words of Lord Gwyn to his grave.

"More have gone," one of the Silver Knights had told him, a long time ago.

The Dragonslayer stepped out from the cathedral and to the top of the staircase, and looked across the expansive city of Anor Londo, golden sunlight bathing the entire city. It was perhaps the largest cities in Lordran and beyond, yet it was also the most devoid of life. In this truly massive metropolis, created to house gods and lords, only a few remained.

"Cowards," Ornstein, mostly to himself. "Traitors. Deserters." He turned his back on the city and moved back into the cathedral, striding through the sentinels who stood at either side of the gates, slowing closing behind him. Passing more sentinels, he came to the main hall, where the statues of the Lord and Princess stood, tall and grand above all else.

Here, also stood one of the few people left in Anor Londo, and the only one he could call to for in assistance in these times. There were no other brothers in arms here could have to stand by his side, not anymore.

Smough, the horrid man, stood to the back wall, tapping a hand to the giant hammer he held.

"What is the word of thee?" the giant asked, his voice deep.

Ornstein ignored him, and instead walked past him, choosing to enter the small elevator just to the side.

"Not many left in Anor Londo, I presume then?" Smough continued, a deep, echoing chuckle edging at his statement. "Such a shame, such a shame..."

More laughter continued, but Ornstein kept them out of his ears. Upon reaching the top, he stepped off the plate and continued his way for the large double doors that were on this floor. When he reached them, he did not enter, instead he merely placed his hands against them.

Ever since the secret departure of Flann, the Princess had long since retreated into her chambers, never calling for any servants, only calling on him and Smough when necessary, which was a rarity in itself. In fact, it had been many weeks since he had last laid eyes on her, the last thing she had said to him was what Lord Gwyn had said; protect Anor Londo, protect the Princess of Sunlight.

These were orders he would serve faithfully, as he had been doing since the Age of Grey. He had faith in his Lord's words and will, and that his sacrifice for the Age of Fire would extend the life of their world.


	6. Flying Feline Boots

**Flying Feline Boots**

 _ _Boots crafted with brown fur.__ __ _ _Absorb shock and reduce fall damage.__

 _ _These boots, used in celebrative festival, are light, rugged, and retain warmth.__ __

Sweet Shalquoir suddenly picked her head off the table, her ears twitching for several moments before a smile appeared beneath her whiskers.

"Oh, so those rats have finally stopped their squeaking, how marvelous!" she said, a laugh in her tone. "I guess that undead that's been coming around here managed to do something useful for the community for a change. Oh ho ho ho, I should fine a way to thank them somehow, but how?" She hummed to herself for a short time, then made a small gasp. "Oh, I know!"

Shalquoir jumped her her resting place on the table and moved into the corner of the room and pawed at a large chest. Pushing open the lid with her nose, she then jumped into it and began to rummage around for a bit. Things flew out occasionally, rings, glowing stones, and dusty old bones, before a lump of fur was tossed out. Shalquoir followed it, and arranged it, dusting it off, and setting it straight to reveal a pair of fur boots and a pair of shorts.

"Yes, yes, they will certainly like this. They'll have to pay for it, of course, hehe..."

000

"Don't worry about it," Shalquoir said. "You can trust me when I say that these things can certainly safe."

The Bearer of the Curse looked down at the fur boots and shorts they were now wearing. "Are you sure that this can prevent me from long drops?"

"I never said that, I said they would reduce the harm you suffer. Why, those boots, along with that ring, I'm more than certain you could even reach the bottom of this pit. I mean, yes you'll probably have broken every bone if your body, put without them you'd end up dead."

"You do not inspire confidence, Shalquoir," the Bearer of the Curse said flatly, looking down into The Pit.

"You really let that cat rip you off?" said Gilligan, carving another miniature from some sticks. "You should have just bought a ladder from me, I certainly would have given you a fair price."

"No one is talking to you, vagabond," Shalquoir said, her nose up, before turning back to the undead. "Now go ahead, try them out, you will no regret it."

Looking back down The Pit, the Bearer of the Curse took a deep breath and stepped off ledge.

Moments later, there was a wet crunch, echoing deep below.

"They're dead you know," Gilligan said.

"Well, I can't be held responsible for whatever their deaths are. They should know better than to jump off the deep end right off the bat, should have at least worked their way up to that." She gave a feline version of a shrug. "Oh well, I guess not everyone can land on their feet."


	7. Fang Boar Helm

**Fang Boar Helm**

 _Severed head of the fully-armored Fang Boar taken by the one who killed it as proof of his victory, just as the Gods once did with the head of the ancient dragons._

 _Can be worn on the head as a surprising sound piece of protective gear._

Loud grunts erupted throughout the thick forest, quickly followed by the yells and screams of humans.

The Fang Boar swung its massive head, slamming one giant tusk right through the torso of a single hunter who had tried to attack it head on, the spiks driving deep into their flesh before the giant beast threw it off and into a tree.

Another came up behind it and swung down their sword, but the metal simply clashed off of it, sending sparks harmlessly off of the thick and plated armor that covered its entire body. In retaliation, the boar kicked up with its hind legs, landing a hit right into the middle of the knight's chest, and they went flying.

It charged forward then and attack with its tusks, but one of the knights had raised their shield and managed to block the blow, though not without being almost knocked to his feet. The Fan Boar went for another strike, but the knight was able to recover quickly enough and was able to dodge out of the way, narrowly avoiding the path of the strike. Another grunt and it slammed its front hooves down on the ground, shaking the earth slightly and stuck down at him, but he was able to avoid the strike again. With the brief opening, the knight managed to pull out his sword, slim and sturdy, and stabbed upward, sliding it in-between the plates and into its neck. With a loud grunt it leaped away from the knight and shook its head, blood spurting from the wound in small bursts.

"Are you okay, My Lord!" another knight called out, running up to the first.

"I am well," the lord said, standing up and pointed his sword at the beast, shield poised to his side. "It is injured, we must make our move now!" He then rushed forward, cape flowing behind him, and stabbed again. The Fanged Boar threw its head, and missed, leaving it vulnerable to another stab through the gaps in the armor, prying with enough force to open up the armor enough to allow him to swing and hack at the exposed fur and flesh around the neck region. The hit was enough

It snorted, its head wildly swinging around, close to hooking behind the knight's back, but he was able to dodge out of the way, before grabbing his sword in both hands and swinging down and hacking further into the neck, cutting into bone. The beast made a wheezing grunt before falling to the ground, its head separate from the rest of the body.

Knight King Rendal grabbed the head by the nape of its neck and heaved the massive thing above his head and let out a loud roar, something which the rest of his band of knight happily replied with, thrusting their swords into the air at the sight of their king's victory.

Rendal lowered and looked into the distance, and saw their distance on a faraway mountain.


	8. Manikin

**Manikin**

 _Armor of the manikins of Harvest Valley._

 _A fickle queen gave them life, and tore off their faces. How else could she forgive those who dared gazed upon her._

 _The peculiar art of puppetry is a vestige of the two lost lands. A queen breathed life into these dolls with the very miasma that afflicted her poison-drenched bosom, so that she would have slaves to serve her temperamental will._

Mytha breathed out a relaxed breath, rubbing the ointment into her skin, one of the most important parts of her daily rituals, something that took most of her time to begin with.

Yes, her ointments and lotions, her salves and potions, they were without a doubt the most valuable commodity she had, that her kingdom had to offer, thought likely second only to the iron that filled her land. After all the metal was gone, stripped from the land until there was no more, this wonderful medicine began to pour from the ground in thick clouds, turning the once green and beautiful land sickly and deathly.

Honestly, it confused her, how could something be so harmful to the land be so invigorating to her. Either way, this was what she needed, what she needed now that her kingdom had nothing left to offer her king to further build his growing empire of iron and fire.

She laughed contently, falling back into the expansive and shallow pool, sending waves to lap at the edges. Everything felt so good, she felt happy and constantly euphoric, her mind always clear, and her body... Yes, her body...

Mytha looked up at her hands, they had changed, covered in scales and colored green. Once she would have been disgusted by that, but now she could now be nothing less than taken absolutely by her own beauty. These treatments were what supplied her with this beauty, and she needed more, yet all her servants had either abandoned her, or died.

She crawled over to the edge of the pool and straightened herself up. With the magic and puppetry she had taken from her love's castle, she had created new servants to collect her potions and defend her castle. It was man-shaped and short, with a rough and featured face. This Manikin was the first of many, she would create more, something that would make her love proud of what she could do.

She traced a hand over its rough features and stared at its mask, and it stared back at her with empty eyes.

Suddenly she was filled with rage as the though of anyone looking upon her. Mytha then reached up her other hand to the other side of its head and quickly, and cleanly, tor its head right off its shoulders.

"You cannot even dare to look upon my beauty," she hissed harshly, staring daggers into the mask in her hand. "Only one is worthy of that honor, and automatons such as you are not of that worth." She shoved the mask into the arms of the Manikins, causing it to crash backwards. "Toss that thing away." This hiss was more literal this time.

Obediently, the Manikin stood up and walked out of the room, leaving Mytha to indulge herself.


	9. Minotaur Helm

**Minotaur Helm**

 _An ornamental helm commissioned by the Old Iron King._

 _An awkwardly re-purposed iron ornament, and a such, remains a stuffy, heavy thing. Wearing it gives one a sensation of being smothered in iron._

Eygil wiped the sweat from her brow, the iron pouring from the massive smelter vat, pouring into the mold. The heat was intense, perhaps hotter than any flame she could possibly produce. She pulled a lever and the mold lowered below the level where she was operating and looked down at the burning white iron from the opening on the inside.

It would be a while before her project would cool, and in the meantime she looked away from it and turned her attention back to the rest of her workshop and tables, filled with scrolls, heavy irons tools, and lit candles. Her attention was drawn to a heavy and thick book, cracked leather binding and faded yellow pages.

In the recent years, since Sir Alonne passed, the Old Iron King had been much more ill-tempered, and his demands for larger and greater monuments were coming with greater frequency, and while she had always been pleased to create what he desired, perhaps as a part of her own vanity, to see if she could, she found herself having trouble with his some of his most recent requests.

She looked to the centerpiece of her desk, a hollowed iron bull bust. He wanted something like that, something to emulate the bull, a creature he had always admired for its strength and power, an automaton, not unlike the others she had created. The Ironclades were mere fodder compared to what he wanted now, a towering behemoth constructed entirely of iron, and he wanted something more from it.

Taking the heavy weight into her arms, Eygil looked down to the lower levels and saw her early experiments stationed at their posts at the bottom of the tower, the great Iron Warriors she had crafted, waiting for their next order. The were powerful, unstoppable, wielding unimaginable strength and held within them a fierce fire. But even so, they were so far below what she was working on now.

Life. The Iron King wanted this new piece of work to be alive. No matter how well of a job she did with her previous creations, to actually create life with fire and iron was something no one else had ever done, and he wanted that feat to be attributed to him and she wanted that as well. In all her travels, she had never met another pyromancer who had even compared to her power over flame, and even still she wanted to be above even that.

She wanted to grant life to what was lifeless.

Alone in the production chamber, Eygil did not see the faint light wafting in the from ground, only to suddenly fly into her body.

"Life," Eygil said softly to the bull ornament. "I can create life."


	10. Silver Knight

**Silver Knight**

 _Armor of the Silver Knights who protect Anor Londo._

 _When the Lord Gwyn departed to link the Fire, his knights split into two groups. The Silver Knights remained in the forsaken capital in service of their goddess._

All was silent and still, as it had always been. He could hardly see through the thick and rolling mists, but the Silver Knight continued to march with the rest of the troop he led over the craggy ground gray stone and earth, until they came to a sudden stop, and they all looked up.

High above them, above the mist and amongst the towering archtrees, was a dragon. The stone behemoth as it dived for the ground, come so ground the knights that the sheer force of the winds it send down was enough to knock them all down, spreading them wide and apart from each other. He managed to quickly gather himself to his feet and held himself up, holding up his shield just as the dragon began to circle back, but a number of giant, tree-sized arrows shot up through the air, fired by the support troops who had managed to stand their ground after the first attack, and struck it directly. Most of them merely bounced off the stone hide, but several managed to hit their mark, piercing through the wings with enough force to cause to to falter in its flight, before crashing to the ground.

With a roar, it pulled itself to its legs and let out a roar that could be heard for miles, and despite being grounded, the dragon was still a terrible threat, and his company of twenty knights. He motioned for his solders to strafe the dragon, to keep its attention divided to between numerous small groups, and for the archers to add support when they could.

It began to breath fire, coating the field in blasting of searing heat that instantly blew most of his forces away, but he was able to raise his shield to protect himself, the flames bouncing off the thick metal. When the fires cleared he quickly ran forward towards the dragon, which roared in retaliation as it swiped at another knight at its feet before turning its attention at him. The giant head snaked forward, aiming for him and snapping its jaws at him, but he clenched his sword tightly in both hands and jumped into the air, leaping high, flipping forward, before coming down right on top of its head, driving the blade deep into the skull before jumping back off and to the ground.

The dragon threw its head around, pained from the chunk cut from its head and directed its harsh glare toward the Silver Knight.

Using his left hand, the knight pointed it at the dragon as it charged at him.


	11. Dragonrider

**Dragonrider**

 _Armor worn by the Dragonriders, King Vendrick's royal guard. According to legend, the Dragonriders straddled not horses, by wyrms._

 _Aspiring Dragonriders who had not the mettle to handle their training were torn apart by their wyrms, and those who emerged with deific strength._

The wyrm screeched loudly and thrashed as the Dragonrider pulled hard on the heavy leather reins, pulling it to a stop. It breathed heavy, almost steaming, and clawed at the ground impatiently, the head raising itself high up, and sniffed a the air, looking over the forest canopy to the ocean in the distance. He pulled on his reins again to ease the wyrm, to prevent it from getting it overexcited and under control.

"Captain," asked one of the infantrymen who stood below him. "We have messages from out scouts to the east."

"A message?" the Dragonrider asked, his voice deep and lower, grabbing hold of the armor along the wyrm's neck and throwing his leg around its wide back, to jump to the ground. He stood before the infantryman, towering over him, his armor and other equipment bulky and heavy compared to the iron helm and leather jacket of the much lower-ranked soldier.

The infantryman reached into his belt, next to the small knife, and pulled out a scroll, handing it over to the captain, who looked it over, reading the lines carefully and thoroughly.

"Just as the king thought," he said, putting the scroll away. "The giant city is weakest amongst the northern borders, along the swamps, the have little patrols there compared to the rest of their walls, so getting a platoon through there should be much easier." He turned around and looked away from the ocean, a mountain in the distance, and a city carved into its side, extending far and wide from it. "I will converge with the other Dragonriders, as well as the king, until then relay an order to the other units, to cease their attacks on the giant forts and hold their position, just outside their ranges. In the meantime we will discuss a plan of attack and start from there."

"Are you certain that you will be able to come up with something, sir?" the infantryman asked. "So far the giants have had us on the ropes so far."

"I am certain," the Dragonrider said, grabbing the saddle of the wyrm and hoisting himself up to straddle its back. "King Vendrick wanted the swamps investigated, so he must have something in mind, and the king has never led us astray, it is how he defeated those four old souls. If he trusts the words of his new queen, then I have, in turn, have faith in him."

He snapped the reins, and the wyrm screeched, and kicked with powerful hindlegs and galloped back to the camp.


	12. Bell Keeper

**Bell Keeper**

 _An old set of armor that is oddly comfortable. Belonged to a Bell Keeper._

 _To this day, the forbidden love of the Princes of Alken and the Princess of Venn manipulate these marionettes._

 _Surely they never imagined that their dolls would outlast their own kingdom._

Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong. Ding-Dong.

"Hah hah hah hah! Ho ho ho oh!" The Bell Keeper wildly clapped as the loud sounds of the ringing bells high above them. "Yes, yes! Keep it going, rip them up, tear them apart!"

He can hear them out there, the cutting, the smashing, the stabbing, the ripping! All for love! Forever true!

Snip-snap, joints into place. Click-clack, neck into the torso. Ring-bang, helmet on head.

"'I love you more than anything', he said," the Bell Keeper laughed, his voice lower pitched.

"'I love you too, but we can't be together, they won't let us', she said," he repeated to himself, in a higher pitch.

A body fell from the rafters above, crashing into a pile of pieces of retired Bell Keepers, bits of armor and helmets and limbs and heads allover the place. The undead in question gave a gurgling choke as their body vanished, dissolving into smoke.

"Undead, undead!" he cheered. "Got unlucky you did! Dead again, throat stabbed! Come again soon!"

Sometime later, maybe minutes, maybe years, the undead came back.

"Just how long have you been doing this?" he asked, looking the demented dwarf up and down.

"Forever since ever!" he replied, excitement on the edge of his voice. "And we'll keep ringing the bell 'till all our heads fall off! For the prince and the princess, forever true!" He cackled, rocking back and forth on his ledge, kicking his feet wildly.

"You're insane, you know that don't you?" the undead replied, flatly.

"You're insane!" he snapped back. "The prince and princess, forever true, made us to guard these bells forever and ever. Can't be insane if we guard this bell, can we?" A mad giggle. "The prince and the princess, they loved each other so much, love's not crazy, not one bit! The head and the heart, they but one thing, what the head wants the heart wants. The heart can never be wrong if the head is wrong, that won't make any sense."

"B-But that doesn't make any sense either," the said, looking at the dwarf in confusion.

Leaning forward, the Bell Keeper began to harshly whisper. "It don't have too. You protect the bell, that's all you need to know! Who cares if you don't think it makes sense, just so long as you kill and rend and split and main! Protect the bells! Hah hah hah hah! Ho ho ho oh!" Clutching his belly, he fell backwards, wildly kick his legs back and forth in the air.

The undead stared at the strange little man for a time, before hearing the sounds of bells above. Shouldering his axe he began to walk towards the stairs.

"True love forever true!" the dwarf cackled.


	13. Paladin

**Paladin**

 _Armor of Leeroy, Paladin of the Catacombs._

 _Long ago, the Way of White produced its first undead, a a paladin in golden armor. With the legendary treasures Grant and Sanctus, Leeroy set out for Lordran, Land of the Gods, in the first Undead mission of the Way of White._

Leeroy could hear the rattle of bones and the ominous chanting in the distance.

With one hand, he clutched at his head, and in the other, he held a cracked red eye orb, or at least the shattered remains of one. He had forgotten where he had gotten it, possibly having stripped it off a corpse somewhere in his descent into the caves and tombs. Just how long had he been down here, wandering underground, for the Rite of Kindling? How long had it been since he had even seen the day? The idea of sunlight itself was a distant concept to him. Fingers loosening, the splinters of the orb shard fell out of his hand and into the dust at his feet.

The paladin looked over the cliff side to the distant fog and archtrees far off. He knew the origins of the world, any self-respecting member of the Way of White knew the legends of how Lord Gwyn liberated the the early days from the dragons, but to see it here, a window into the past, was almost too much for him.

Underneath his armored fingers, he could feel the dry and rotted skin of his scalp. It had been so long since he had his humanity had been restored, and he could feel his sanity and presence of mind leaving him at all instances. He had tried using soap stones to help someone, and that had staved off the hollowing for a time, but he had lost it somewhere, and with the orb, he tried to kill someone. He failed. His last bid at becoming human again had failed, and now he had nothing but the armor and weapons he had been given.

There was nothing left for him, he knew he only had so little time now.

He placed his helm back atop his head, and began to rush into the cave behind.

Skeletons appeared, some with swords, some with bows, and others forming towers, but none of them stopped him. Grant crushed them all beneath is immense weight, and everything became a frantic blue as he ran past and through everything that stood in his way.

Eventually, he dropped into the darkness. Water splashed at his feet as his entire body shook, and he could feel the air become heavy and cold. A scream then pierced the air, and sharp blade erupted from the ground below him and was sent flying. Crashing to the ground, he rolled over, grabbing Grant in his hand, and saw what he was looking for.

Gravelord Nito stood before him, a cloud of death and darkness, hollowed eyes looking down at him.

With a roar, Leeroy charged at him.


	14. Ruin

**Ruin**

 _Armor worn by the jailer's creation, the Ruin Sentinel._

 _The Sentinel has no form, its soul residing within the armor itself. Stare at it for long and it seems ready to spring to life, but surely, such is an illusion._

The jailer grabbed the stone around the edges and pulled it out of the hole in the wall, and on the other side of the room a passageway vanished.

"There goes those blathering cretins," he said, pocketing the lockstone. "I can tolerate the ringing bells, but damn, but those creatures with their incessant rants are far too irritating."

"This place is crumbling apart," said a guard next to him. "Honestly, one more big storm, and this whole place could be swallowed up but the ocean." He sniffed. "Wouldn't surprise me in the least, place is probably older than the castle, hell, it's been here since before we came to this land."

"We need a place to hold the undead for now," the jailer said, turning away and climbing up the ladder to the common area. The guard followed closely behind him.

"Is that going to be the solution to this whole mess?" the guard asked, sitting down at one of the tables. "Round up the undead, stick 'em in here and forget about them?" He gave a slight shake to his head. "I mean, it'll clean up the kingdom for a bit, but what about down the line? Unlike you, I have children and I worry about what you're going to leave behind for them,"

"I wouldn't worry about what we leave behind for your children," the jailer said, standing two heads taller than the guard. "This place will be used to house the undead, yes, but here we will also do research on them, discover why and how they come to being in the first place, and I have no doubts that this project will be a very long-term one indeed." Walking over to the other end of the room, on a table was a Bell Keeper, dissembled. "I'm afraid we may not be able to keep guards here full time because of that, but thankfully it seems like past kingdoms have left behind tools to for use to use."

"What are you talking about?" the guard asked, leaning forward slightly in his seat.

The jailer did not answer, instead he looked down the table, past the Bell Keeper, and to a helmet. It was old, a single, empty suit found in a corner of the bell tower, surrounded by raving manic dwarfs. "The soul is a strange thing, is it not? Those Bell Keepers are not alive, yet they seem to be sentient, albeit unhinged." He grabbed the helm and raised it up. It was tall and slender, coppery in color. "I wonder if that same application can be replicated in any degree?"

The guard looked at the man, curiously, as he began to silently mutter to himself as he took out a scroll and began to write down notes. The king's brother was certainly an off man.


	15. Steel

**Steel**

 _Armor of the Knights of Berenike, known for their heavy armaments and armor._

 _Countless Knights of Berenike, once extolled as the mightiest of the mighty, became Undead and ventured to Lordran. But their journey was naught, as they went Hollow and became a threat to all Undead._

A loud crash could be heard across the upper reaches of the fortress, iron groaning against iron, another crash, before a loud scream.

Moments later, the knight appeared at the bonfire.

He breathed in heavily, and pushed his hands into his face to swipe away the cold sweat. "Come on, come on. How could I keep dying to that thing?" he asked, out of breath. He sat up from the fire and walked down the small, dark hallway, and off the small ledge that overlooked the swinging pendulum blades and thin walkway. In front of him was a fresh body, wrapped in round and large armor, a knight of Catarina it seems, with a thick metal spear sticking out from the back of their neck. It wasn't there an hour ago.

"Catarina is here as well?" he asked aloud, taking a step forward, carefully avoiding the pressure plate, and looked off the ledge to the varying mechanisms of the fortress. The dark made it difficult to see, but he was able to make out several shapes amongst the various levels, several other knight, some of Catarina, his own of Berenike, as well as some of the Balder knights they came with. He could see them fighting snakemen, trying to traverse the narrow paths, side-swipped to the swinging blades, and falling to the Titanite Demon in the sludge at the very bottom.

He walked away and up the stairs, back into the sunlight. As he carefully made his way through the pathways for what felt like the umpteenth time, he could see the fresh bodies of dead soldiers, some still alive, heavily injured and leaning against walls, and some showing early signs of hollowing. He did nothing to help these people. Eventually he made his way back to where the path almost ended.

If he stepped through that door, he would have to fight again, and lose again, and restart again. Looking around and through the window he could see the Iron Golem, standing still, his blood still on its axe.

For a long time, he didn't step over the threshold, he merely stared forward, his hand raised to press through the fog with the slightest pressure, but he didn't. Instead he lowered his hand and walked away until he eventually came to a secluded tower, out of the way, and sat down at the small table. He took his helmet off and placed it on the wood, and leaned into his hands. He stayed like this for a long time, merely listening to the sounds of knights fighting and dying outside, unwilling to do anything.


	16. Channeler

**Channeler**

 _Armor of the Channelers, sorcerers that serve Seath the Scaeless. The six eyes arranged in two vertical columns compensate for Seath's lack of sight. Even after the onset of Seath's madness, the "snatchers" as they were often called, ventured to far lands to fund suitable human specimens._

 _The heaviest of protective gear for sorcerers and imbued with magic._

The woman blocked the frenzied blows of the hollows, the frantic swings of the rusted broken sword clattered against the wood and leather of her shield, and quickly plunged her shortsword into the base of its skull. It gave off a short gurgled choke before she pulled the weapon out of the dry and withered skin, letting it collapse to the ground. Checking her surroundings, she quickly checked the body, to see if there were any sort of valuables on the tattered rags it wore, but failed to find anything she could use.

Nighttime was coming in the burg, which meant it time to find a hiding place for the night. Things tended to come out during the night, monsters, demons, and people who were not yet hollowed, but still very dangerous, and she, equipped with only a shortsword and small leather shield, knew she would be safer hidden away from the beasts, be they human or not. So she ran for her safehouse, a small dwelling just down the street.

But blocking in her way was a strange man, dressed in heavy robes with a six-eyed helm. At first, she wondered if this person, whoever it was, could see her, but then it raised a trident it had been holding, and fired off a blast of magic at her. She managed to quickly roll out of the way of the bolt, and retaliated by throwing a firebomb at it, which struck directly at its chest. It staggered slightly, and she made a run for it, sword grabbed in both hands, ready to stab it deep through the chest.

But the creature than began to dance, chanting in words she could not understand, and it vanished from her sight, just as her sword came down where it had been moments ago. She stumbled and almost fell to the ground, confused, and looked around, before a blast of magic struck her in the back.

Soon the creature stood over her, and brought its weapon down, striking her right across the face.

The next time she opened her eyes, everything was blurry and bright, and she was being carried over the shoulder of that that creature who had attacked her, and before she could do anything she was thrown roughly to the ground, and she heard the loud slamming of metal. She jumped to her feet and saw the creature on the other side of a prison door, her being in the cell itself. It stared at her for what felt like an uncomfortably long time before it walked away.

"Where is this place?" she asked aloud, taking a hold of the crystal-line bars in her hands. All she could see was an expansive collection of books and crystals. "I need to get out of here, where ever this is."

Deep below, she could swear she could hear women weeping.


	17. Vengarl

**Vengarl**

 _Armor worn by the ferocious Vengarl of Forossa._

 _As Vengarl's helmet suggests, he was not unlike a mad beast on the battlefield._

 _Vengarl was known as a raging, deadly warrior. Even Forossa's Lion Knights, a motley crew of rabid fighters, kept him at arm's length._

Vengarl roared, a scream piercing the thick fogs around him, as he swung his swords down, hacking into the flesh of the soldier her towered over. They yelled in pain, but Vengarl could only laugh as her swung again, cutting them into bits.

A battle was going on around him, people fighting, people killing, blood spilling. It was glorious. He was thankful actually; he was beginning to get bored, he had the rest of her mercenary band had not seen action in a short while, and well it was nice to make sure the king got his money's worth. He didn't know who this band of thieves were, but frankly he didn't care too much.

Though, it would be nice to be able to see more than ten feet in front of him.

He swung again, and the last of the bandits fell into a bloodied heap. Vengarl laughed deeply, feeling the blood on his hands, dripping from his weapons, and loving it, but then he noticed something.

Nothing. He heard nothing around him. He carefully looked around, but only saw thick fog and the shadows of trees, but he did not hear anything else, not the sounds of anyone fighting. Dead silence. Could he had strayed far from the rest of the group, it was possible due to how similar everything looked, but he doubted he could have gone that far.

Suddenly, there was a scream in the distance.

Vengarl turned towards that distance, and cautiously approached it. As he made his way towards the where the sound had come from, he would occasionally hear footsteps in the leaves, but whenever he turned around to see who was there, he could see nothing, not a single soul. Eventually he walked up a path, and ended up in a small inclosing, holding a some sort of ruins. In the center was a body, stabbed to death, most likely. Vengarl saw nothing of interest here and turned around, only to be stabbed in the chest.

He roared and swung his swords down, but hit nothing. He didn't see anything either, his assailant nowhere to be seen.

"Where are you?!" he screamed, turning around on his feet. "Where are you curd?!"

He heard something behind him, and swung in that direction, but caught nothing. Nonetheless a bolt from a crossbow found itself embedded into his chest. Vengarl lunged forward and stabbed at the ground, but it stopped in midair, as though it hit something, flesh he could tell. Confused, he tried to push further, but something cut at his back and legs, causing him to stumble to the ground.

He head crashed against a pile of rubble, and he tried to push himself up, but a heavy weight came onto his back, and before he could do anything a sharp blade came down, cutting through his neck, and severing it from the rest of his body.

Hours later, he regained consciousness.


	18. Crown of the Ivory King

**Crown of the Ivory King**

 _Crown of the Ivory King, who one ruled this land._

 _Far to the north, a King built a great cathedral to appear the raging flame, but when he sensed the degradation of his soul, he left without a word, leaving everything to Alsanna, who had, unbeknownst, found a place at his side._

 _But these were events of long ago, and today, no one even remembers the King's name._

There was nothing in this land but ice and snow, and it had been that way for so very long. A thick layer of ice and snow covering a layer of fire, hell and chaos. The land had always been like this, or at least as far as she knew, since he had always been the one to protect it, ever since the city was founded, possibly centuries ago. Alsanna felt there was something familiar about the fires, a small comforting presences that would have brought ease to her heart, had there not been a terrible corruption to it.

Those feelings, however distant, did not exist at this moment. Down below her, deep into the crust of the earth, the chaos roared as a battle happened, an army against an army. On one hand this was exactly what she wanted, to put a stop the dangers below, but on the other had she knew what that victory would entail, but there was nothing left of him, she knew that as well. Everything that he had been, the once great and powerful man he had once been, had long since burnt away from the inside-out, leaving nothing but a charred husk and a haunted suit of armor.

Eleum Loyce had once been a grand city, the heart of Forrosa itself, but now it was empty, save for her and the few remaining Loyce Knights. They could have left with the rest of the populace, when it became clear that the Old Chaos could not be contained much longer, but instead they chose to stay, and wait for this day, where they ha to take their blades against their king.

There was then a whisper in the air, a haunting echo as the flame began to calm down.

It was done, the undead had done what needed to be done for centuries, the Ivory King was dead.

A weight that had been building for years was suddenly gone, leaving Alsanna empty. She had years to grieve for her king, and she wasn't too certain how she would feel when this had happened, but right now she felt empty and tired. The strain of the Old Chaos had greatly lessened, becoming much more bearable, and she could feel she could breath easily now. It balanced out, she thought, trying to look at the bright side of things.

Right now however, she needed to perform one more task; reaching down she picked up the last keepsake from her king; his crown. It had been giving to her before he left for the last time, and with it she could use this to return the hero from the Old Chaos.

This crown, it had such power behind it, perhaps it could serve the hero well, they deserved it after all, she didn't need it anymore.

She no longer held any fear in her heart.


	19. Sanctum Priestess Tiara

**Sanctum Priestess Tiara**

 _Tiara of the Eternal Sanctum Priestesses. Prevents effects that block spells._

 _This tiara has been warped by poison, adding to its already peculiar design. It is said that the priestesses sang to preserve the dragon's deep slumber, but one wonders if a single phrase of their song ever reached the dragon's ears._

She ran as fast as she could, as hard as she could, until her legs grew tired and she could hear her heart pounding in her ears. She could also hear, in the depths of the temple, the sounds of swords clattering against each other, of men and women screaming as they were cut down. The priestess tripped over the front of her own robe, and went tumbling to the ground, with her goal so close to her.

"There's one of them right now!" yelled a voice from down the hall.

In a panic, she pulled herself to her feet and threw out a hand, sending a dark orb out, blindly firing it down the way she had come, and was lucky enough for it to hit the chest of one of her pursuers, a man dressed in black armor with a red cape draped around his back. There were several of them, but the one in front, the one she had hit, had gone tumbling backwards and into another one of them, but not the third, who continued to run at her. She quickly looked over across the short bridge and to the open passageway, if she could just get in there, she could close the stone door behind her and take refuge next to the bonfire in there, until this whole tragedy had been taken care of, and the king had expelled the invaders.

But the Drakeblood was on her before she could run, and with a swing of his sword her cut her down the center, sending her flying to the below floor.

Clutching at the gaping wound at her gaping wound, she slowly, and painfully managed to set up and snapped her fingers three times, causing several dark orbs to appear in the air above her. The queen had taught this hex to all of those who had been selected to sing to the great dragon, she had been honored to learn such things, and now she prayed to that same dragon for these spells to save her life. Limping away, she found herself leaning against railing, overlooking the center chamber of the temple, and on the varying lower levels she could see other Drakeblood Knights fighting against Shulva soldiers, killing other denizens of the temple.

Behind her she could hear the heavy footsteps of the knights behind her. The dark orbs shot out at them, and thankfully they hit one, possibly the one she hit earlier, with enough force to knock him back down. He didn't get back up, and she hoped that he had been head.

Slowly, the remaining two approached her, swords drawn. She wanted to defend herself, but the situation did not feel favorable, and she was afraid.

Suddenly the entire temple shook, there was a terrible roar, and she looked back bottom of the temple. The entrance that led to the great dragon suddenly exploded with a green gas that rushed up the entire building, and she, and the knights, were knocked back by the sheer force. It was noxious and burned her eyes and lungs. She buried her mouth in her rob, and pulled her headpiece to cover her eyes. None of it helped though, and she found herself choking on the toxins.


	20. Maiden

**Maiden**

 _White cloths worn by traveling maidens. It is part of their formal attire, regardless of rank._

 _It is soft and well-made, but does not offer much in the way of defense, making it ill-suited to use in combat._

Rhea fell to the ground, her body exhausted, beaten and tired, she felt she was unable to move, but the warm and soothing bonfire was only just outside her arm's reach. Pushing herself to her hands and knees, she managed to crawl towards the fire and outreach a hand towards it, palm open towards the fires. Smoke filled her vision briefly as she felt new life pour into her body in an instant, all her injuries, aches and fatigue simply vanishing. With the strength now returned to her body. Rhea sat back on her legs, kneeling before the bonfire.

"Oh, so you're back then?" said a tired and annoyed voice to her right. Turning, she saw the Crestfallen Warrior, still sitting in the same spot she had first seen him in when she had first come to this shrine. "I'm actually surprised, when that cleric came back, he made it seem like you had died down there, and became just another one of the Gravelord's skeletons." He gave a humorless laugh. "You must have been lucky to make it all the way back up here."

"P-Petrus is alive?" she asked, her voice quiet. "He made it back?"

"Oh yes, her came back some time ago," the Crestfallen Warrior said. "More than can be said for your bodyguards though." He leaned forward slightly. "How exactly did something like that happen? They were armed to the teeth, they must have been poor excuses for warriors if you managed to survive them."

Rhea wanted to retort, to snap at him, how dare he say such things, but the words died on her lips. She knew why they died, gone Hollowed; it was her fault. Such a fool she had been, thinking her faith would be enough to protect her and her friends from harm, that Lord Gwyn's divine intervention would be enough to save them, but in the end it was nothing. Vince and Nico were gone, and she could do nothing while they wasted away into soul-starved fiends.

Reaching into her robes, Rhea pulled out the pure white cloth of the talisman that had been gifted to her when she had been given this pilgrimage. This, and the cloths she was wearing, were the only things she had taken with her, the only things to remind her of home she had left.

How could this happen? She could never find the Rite of Kindling, she was stuck in this cursed land, fated to never return. Her dearest friends were dead and she had been unable to do anything to save them, and now she was alone. There was no one left to protect her, and in this land, it would only be a matter of time before something took advantage of her defenselessness.

She could have sobbed at the thoughts running through her head. How could Lord Gwyn be so cruel as to let this happen?


	21. Shadow (DSI)

**Shadow**

 _Black cloth worn by spooks from an Eastern land. Designed so as not to hinder their unique form of martial arts._

 _While it sacrifices defense of the sake of greater mobility, it does offer resistance to bleeding and poison among other things, perhaps due to the nature of espionage._

Blood seeped into his dark clothes from the body he was carrying in on his back. He had to make certain that no one could discover his work, though a part of him wanted to leave it behind, maybe even put it on display for everyone to see. It's not like he was going to stay here for much longer anyway.

He came to the end of balcony, wide and open to the cool moonlit air, with a view of the entire village from the other side of the lake. Heaving the body over his shoulder, he threw it over the railings, and after a few seconds he heard a splash as it hit the cold waters below. With the deed done, he reached into his pockets and pulled out the item that he had done all this for, the one thing he would leave this land with; a gold and wood ring. He slipped it on his finger and held his hand up, admiring his new trinket before back down to where he had thrown the body.

Pulling down his mask, he spat to where the body had been thrown. He once held great respect for that man, but with the recent plague of Undead running through the kingdom, he had become very quick to exile or imprison anyone who was even suspected of being an Undead. Despite how close they had once been, he knew he would be shown no leniency in any regard.

Behind him he heard yells. The kill had not been as clean as he would have liked, his friend was never someone easy to sneak up on, and as a result he had a mess. There was very little time left for him, he knew, and he grabbed the railing and jumped over, landing on the balcony below him. Quietly, he ran into the shadows and the dark, trying to hide, and slowly crept his way through the darkened halls.

A guard suddenly came up from around the corner, and he spotted him. He had already killed, crossed a line that no one would forgive, so what was more blood on his hands? His sword was quickly drawn and he slashed downwards, cutting down the man's throat and chest, blood spurting from the gashes, but he ran forward all the same, not waiting for the body to drop to the ground.

More bodies fell, more blood staining the ground, before he managed to escape the mansion.

Hiding in the darkened streets, he put his eyes on port on the far end of town, and began to make his way there. He had taken enough money to prevent people from asking too many questions, and enough for him to go anywhere in the world, but given his current state, there was only one place he could go.


	22. (Old) Ironclad

**(Old) Ironclad**

 _Old armor worn by Ironclad Soldiers. Provides high defense, but extremely heavy, it requires great strength to move it._

 _The Ironclad Soldiers were minions created by the Old Iron King, their life granted by the enchantments of souls. Once, the Old Iron King could have unraveled the greater mysteries, with the aid of his great soul, but he was lead astray by his enormous fortune, becoming nothing more than a vulgar hedonist._

 _One day, warriors wearing decrepit armor emerged from Drangleic Castle, and quietly assumed position amongst the royal army. Not one of them ever spoke a word, or revealed the face under the mask._

"So, who are they exactly?" asked one knight, a recruit, to the other.

"What? Who?" replied the other, older knight, a captain.

The first knight gestured with his hand to the other side of the hallway, to the large and imposing figure standing in front of one of the doorways. 

"Him?" the captain said, pulling a breath from his rolled up cigarette. "He's just one of the Old Ironclads, nothing too strange."

"Are you certain?" the recruit asked. "Because I've been watching him for well over an hour, and he hasn't moved in the slightest."

"He's a guard," the captain said. "It's his job to not move from the place he's been assigned too."

The recruit shook his head. "No, I mean he's not moved in any way. To be honest, when I first saw these knights, I had originally thought they were iron statues until one of the other captains ordered it to patrol around the fortress."

"They certainly are dedicated in that regard," the captain said, walking up the Old Ironclad until he was staring it right in the face. "You there, spin around."

To the recruit's amazement, the Old Ironclad began to slowly turn around, heavy footsteps and armor clattering against itself, until it made a full turn.

"One step to the left, and two steps to the right," the captain continued, and the Ironclad obeyed, wordlessly. "Now, take off your helm."

The Old Ironclad did nothing, merely stood there, unmoving.

"These Old Ironclads," the captain said, turning back to the recruit. "They are perfect soldiers and obey any command given to them on the battlefield, except for when it comes to revealing who they are. Their identities are completely unknown to all except for the king and those close to him."

"Where did they come from?" the recruit asked, cautiously approaching the larger knight.

"From what I heard from my father when he was in the king's guard," the captain said. "Lord Aldia led an expedition to some faraway land, something to do with iron, and when they came back, these knights started appearing everywhere." He walked back t his original spot and leaned up against the wall. "To be perfectly honest, they unnerve me a great deal. There's magic involved, I know that, but I don't know to what extent." He raised a hand and pointed to the knight. "See how they're covered in rust and moss? Rumor has it once you get in one of those suits, you cant get out, and most of them have been in service for well over fifty years. Who knows how long this one's been in this fortress alone." He took a puff. "Hell, they were probably old before they even got here."

The recruit looked over the Old Ironclad, uncertain of it, and took a step back from it.


	23. Pate

**Pate**

 _Although it appears to be common garbs, it has in fact been meticulously customized. Belonged to Mild-Mannered Pat._

 _This has been considerably altered. Perhaps it was pillaged._

 _It is not always advisable to stand out. Especially if you have something to hide._

The wanderer pushed through the old rotted doors, the old wood splitting apart easily and crumbling to the ground. Steeping through he dusted off the old splinters, dust and cobwebs that now covered his body and stepped into the outside word. The sun was hidden behind the clouds, and the air was chilly and cold, the grass on the ground dead and dry, and the courtyard he now found himself was in disrepair, filled with displaced stones from heavily damaged structures, and a few old bodies tucked into the corners.

In the center of the courtyard, there was a large hole in the ground, a cave from the looks of it, and a man sitting on a barrel looking over it.

"Oh, a visitor, have we?" the man asked, his voice pleasant, as the wanderer came into his view. "What a surprise you are, you're actually the first living soul I've seen all week." He gave a light chuckle. "And here I am, thinking that I was the only person within miles of this place."

The wanderer looked the man up and down, and was frankly not impressed. He'd seen gear like that, or at least similar to it, on enough bodies up here, and his weapons, a long spear and a great shield, were none too impressive. He strut along the cave, his own equipment rattling as he did, impressive and intricate armor, a weapon and shield worth their weight in gold. It certainly made this man seem like a beggar in comparison, and this was something the wanderer took pride in.

"What's down there?" the wanderer asked, looking to the dark cave at his feet.

"Oh, there?" the man said, raising his head and resting it on her open palm. "There's a treasure chest down there, and from what I heard the king of this castle used to be rather wealthy, and hid it all away in an underground vault." He raised a hand and pointed it down to the cave below. "As you can see, I think some previous visitors managed to dig it up." Leaning back he gave a heavy sigh. "Alas, I've tried to see if I could get get down there, but I'm afraid there's something down there as well. Any attempt to get to it just ended up with me retreating."

"Couldn't fight it?" the wanderer asked, pulling a hand on his sword.

"Unfortunately no," the man responded, sadly. "Seems like I'm not just properly equipped for anything like that,'

"Giving up then?" the wanderer asked. "Good." He walked around the edge of the cave and stepped onto the ladder and dropped down.

The ladder broke beneath his hand and he fell a long way and landed with a thick crunch. Everything was dark, and in the blackness he could hear an awful screech.

Above him, he heard a deep chuckle.


	24. Smough

**Smough**

 _Armor of Smough, the Executioner, protector of the cathedral at the forsaken city of Anor Long. It offers extremely high defense and can be worm by humans, but not without great difficulty._

 _Smough loved his work, and ground the bones of his victims into his own feed, ruining his hopes of being ranked with the Four Knights._

"Please, no!" cried the prisoner, restrained and held down to the floor by the sturdy chains cuffed around his wrists. He looked frantically around the cliff-side plaza, put on display for everyone to see. No one answered him, no one approached him however, the small audience that had gathered to witness him, standing at the edge of the stage. He was not going to receive any help. Loud footsteps then began to echo through the valley. Between the parted crowd, a large set of metal doors opened, and monster came into view.

Executioner Smough stepped into view, the giant hammer held in both hands. The giant towered over anyone else present, even the tallest of the gods, and slowly made his way towards the prisoner, tethered to the execution stage, which was stained in old and dried blood, signs of Smough's past work. Even though it had felt like years, watching the giant walk towards him, it felt like years, the wait becoming excruciating the closer he became. Soon, Smough was standing before him, a dark shadow being cast over him, blocking the view of the distant Anor Londo from his sight.

The giant looked down at him, the top of his helm in an ever-present grin, and raised his hammer high above his head, and laughed.

"NO!" the prisoner screamed, trying to at least over his form with his arms, only for the chains to be too short. The hammer came down, rocking the cliff side, and the sound of a thick, crunching splat, resonating through the entire valley below. When the hammer finally came up, the prisoner had been reduced to a pile of meat, his blood slayed all over the ground, and some of it still sticking to the flat side of the hammer. He continued with with laughs, his deep and satisfied chuckles at his latest works.

With the execution done, the audience slowly began to dissipate and leave, soon leaving Smough the only one left. When everyone had gone, Smough reached down and grabbed the remains of the prisoner, then dragged the bloody, crushed mess behind him as he dragged it behind him, but stopped in his tracks.

Near the gate, standing just outside his domain, was Ornstein, the Dragon Slayer, the Captain of the Four Knights. The captain looked at him for a short time, and his head turned, looking in the direction of the weapon in his hand, then to the corpse in the other. Without saying a single word, Ornstein turned around and left.

Smough clutched the body tighter, cracking the broken bones further as he seethed in anger, directing it towards the arrogant lion. One day, he would make him see the folly of his decisions to not allow him to be one of Gwyn' chosen.


	25. Guardian-Stone

**Guardian/Stone**

 _Armor of the stone knights, guardians of the forest sanctuary._

 _The Stone Knight is a product of ancient magic, and although this armor are also imbued with magic, they are incredibly heavy._

The knight crept through the forest, pushing away foliage and branches out of his way as he did so. It was difficult to see in the night time air, so he made certain to go slow as he went on exploring down this unknown path. This was the only way he could go as the gates at the end of the path were locked, and he was unable to find any sort of way through them.

Trees were everywhere, and he could hear various the sounds and echoes of varying animals, from birds and insects, and whatever other sort of creatures roamed the Darkroot Garden at night. There were things in the bushes, hopefully not more more the weed creatures that hid in the dirt, popping up when he got close to where they slept.

In the distance, a small light caught his eye, a small shining light in the cool night air.

Armor rattling as he walked, he gripped his sword in one hand and his shield in the other, and approached the small light, only to find it was one of the strange glowing flowers that were found through the entire area. He was a bit disappointed in that, they bore a strong resemblance to the discarded souls of the fallen he would find from time to time.

Suddenly the ground rumbled beneath his feet, and more of those plants, Demonic Foliage he thinks, spring to life and surround him, but they were not the only things to appear. Large stone statues, that he had assumed her mossy boulders, slowly rose to their feet and stood tall above him. The knight saw he was covered from all from all sides, he had to think fast otherwise this would end badly.

He swung, hacking away a large chunk of the plant-creature, and blocked a strike from another. One of the stone giant then attack, swing its massive sword down on him, but her managed to roll out of the way quickly. When he came up he quickly swung at its side, chipping some of its solid armor off of it, but then was whipped from behind by one of the plants.

From the corner of his eye he saw the other stone warrior raise its sword up, but not as an attack as he could see. The weapon glowed, as some sort of spell was cast, but he couldn't tell what kind, but he decided to approach with caution and ran-

He walked slightly. Straightening his leg muscles, he tried to run, but found that he couldn't, as though his lower half had been weighted down by heavy irons, leaving his ability to move freely severely hampered.

A stone sword then came down on him, knocking him flat to the ground. Painfully rolling onto his back he saw the Stone Knight raise its sword again and swing right at him, but he was able to block it with his shield, sending shockwaves through his entire body.

He was not able to block the blow from the second one however.


	26. Golem

Fipp: Last story of the year! 2016 here I come!

 **Golem**

 _Shell of the Iron Golem, guardian of the ancient Sen's Fortress, slayer of heroes who ventured forth from Anor Londo._

 _Without its core, it is a mere hunk of iron and can be equipped as a solid protective gear, but its immense weight hinters stamina recovery._

 _The Gods fused the power of the soul with the great bones of the dragons, forming an appropriate core for the giant golem._

"I think we're finally getting there," said one Balder Knight to the Berenike Knight that stood behind him on the narrow walkway. "I can see the doorway from here." He pointed forward to the mountainside and the large gate built into the sheer face of the cliff.

"It's nice to see that we've finally made some sort of progress," the Berenike Knight replied gruffly. "After so many days of trying to fight our way through this forsaken place, it is a godsend to reach the top of this place."

"There rest of our companies are still behind us," the Balder Knight said, stepping into the small tower. "Hopefully they'll be joining us soon, or else I fear we'll have to go forth into Anor Londo by ourselves."

"We should wait for them," the Berenike Knight said back. "We've had this much difficulty getting this far, I feel it would be unwise for us to proceed much further without others by our sides."

"You may be right there, but we should scout ahead a bit before we do anything else. It's best we at least know something about what we are in for."

Both left through the door passageway and onto the platform to Anor Londo.

The only thing between them and the legendary city, was a giant statue.

"Certainly a grand thing, is it not?" the Berenike Night said, peering up at the colossal thing as they approached it.

"I am not too surprised," the Balder Knight said back. "From what I've heard, the gods tend to favor things like these; giant structures to impress us lowly humans," he said, a slight sneer on the edge of his voice. "Just ignore it."

Suddenly, a load metallic groan rumbled through the air.

"Did you hear that?" the Berenike Knight said, stopping.

"Hear what?" The Balder Knight continued on his way.

"I don't know, it sounded like-AGH!"

The Balder Knight spun around to the sound of the scream and immediately drew his sword. The Berenike Knight had been grabbed by the giant iron statue, its massive hand wrapped tight around him, squeezing him. It then raised him high above its head and threw him down with enough force to shake the entire platform, the body bouncing against the ground as it hit.

Suddenly the Iron Golem swung down its axe down, aiming for him, but the Balder Knight quickly leaped out of the way as the giant blade cleaved the ground. Raising his shield, he quickly strafed around the Iron Golem, trying to make his way to his downed comrade, who had yet to return to his feet.

The Iron Golem swung again, but instead of metal hitting his shield, it was an explosion of air.


	27. Black-White Hollow Mage

**Black/White Hollow Mage**

 _Clothes worn by Hollowed Drangelic mages._

 _Drangelic mages wore different garbs, depending on their sex. What function this served, however, is unknown, as with many old practices._

Chemicals boiled away in long beakers, the green liquids and oils bubbling away, lit dimly by the orange glow of the flame beneath it. Around the dark room were dozens of candles, each one creating a small and bleak light that barely lit the room up, though for the occupants of the room, it was more than enough to see.

"I suggest this area here," asked the Black Mage, tracing a long and spindly finger along the giant map laid across the table. "Undead roam this land, yes, but from what we've been informed, the Old Iron King stored them in these forests, so it will be highly likely that this area simply permeates with death."

"What about the mines here?" said the White Mage, dropping a thick leather book on top of the map. "From what our sellswords from Volgen, Brightstone Cove has an unusual Undead mutation." She reached into the dark behind and pulled out a small rust-covered cage. Inside the cage, was a large spider. "They've reported that the Hollows in the lower regions are seemingly possessed by giant spiders, who attach themselves to their bodies, controlling them somehow."

The Black Mage slowly stroked his beard. "Then perhaps we should split our forces and investigate each area on our own?"

The White Mage gave a cackle, one that sounded cracked and joyless. "Ourselves? If you are suggesting that, than perhaps you've finally gone senile, you old fool." She raised an old and wrinkled hand, waving it dismissively in his direction. "Have some of those thick-headed knights go out there and collect some specimens to bring back here. We have always worked better in our own halls, with our own equipment."

"You remember what Lord Aldia said, crone," the Black Mage sneered. "He and the king have been falling out with each other in the most recent months." He leaned forward, using his lizard-tipped staff to support his weight. "While I do not know the exact nature of what he is doing, King Vendrick seems displeased with some of the more ethical choices of Lord Aldia's own research into the soul. He doubts he may have much more official support from him for much longer. Lord Aldia would, in fact, we go without consulting the king on these matters."

"Going under the king's own nose are we?" the White Mage asked, a cackle on the cusp of her voice. "My, Lord Aldia must certainly be into some horrible things for him wanting us to do that."

"Nonetheless, we have our missions." The Blake Mage traced his fingers along the map again. "The secrets to undeath may lie in these places, and it is our duties to discover them."


	28. Crown of the Sunken King

**Crown of the Sunken King**

 _Crown of the Sunken King, who once ruled this land._

 _The King erected the Eternal Sanctum below the earth to worship the great dragon but the towering bulwark crumbled with the city shortly after the dragon's awakening._

 _But there were events of long ago, and today, no one even remembers the King's name._

The toxic clouds hung over the entire city, so think that it weighed heavily on anyone who had been unfortunate enough to survive the initial blasts. Everything was covered in the poisonous mist, the entire cave had been set alight by green fires and death, and in the distance, she could hear the roaring screams of the ancient, sacred dragon, unleashing the utmost fury upon those who had once worshiped it during its sleep. At this point, she doubted the chances of anyone surviving a disaster of this apocalyptic measure for long, be it by fires or poisons, any stragglers would soon fall.

This was the end of the Sunken Sanctum City, Shulva.

The woman walked through the place of worship, now empty without the dragon's sleeping deep breaths to echo through the air. She herself was fully bathed in the airborne poisons, but did not at all react to them, as she was completely unaffected by the dangers that hung in the very air she breathed. The robes she wore, only granted to the most holy members of the temple, were ripped and torn, results of battle, and covered in blood, though not her own.

Coming to a stop, she looked down to the body before who, or at least what had been left of it; it had been burnt to a crisp, a dried and black, nothing of it recognizable, still giving off a burning heat while toxins seeped off of it. This man, the one who lead the invading forces, had been the first to suffer Sinh's anger and retaliation, and the only thing left of him was what appeared to be a silver ring around his finger, untouched by the infernos.

She ignored him and pressed forward to the other body in the shrine; a large man, giant in stature, wearing armor and robes that had been emulated by the serving knights and priests. He had been cut down, by the invader, his gut wide open and the ground and water beneath him stained red with his blood. Reaching down, she picked up his crown, the coral-shaped design familiar in her hands, and let out an enraged scream.

The king was dead, the dragon injured and awakened, the poison stored in his breasts, beneath his stone skin, all gone. So many years wasted here, so much time, lulling the beast with her songs, filling it with poison, singing it into its chest.

The world was cruel she knew this as truth, from deep within the memories of another life, and she intended to make it all pay for those crimes.

Elana would one day have her day of wrath.


	29. Thorns

**Thorns**

 _Armor of Kirk, Knight of Thorns, and notorious member of the Darkwraiths. A dense patch of thorns grows from the surface._

 _It is a fitting item for the murderous Kirk, for simply wearing it and rolling, one can damage enemies._

"You are nothing more than a fool, unable to see the truth that I have given you. You take the power of the Darkwraiths, the power of the Dark Lord, and yet you wish to pursue other interests? I should not be surprised by this revelation, I suppose you are not the Dark Lord after all. Now go, leave and never come back, and return to your life of senseless murder, you pitiful man."

The shard in his hand pulsed, like a heart, and in the fractured red splinter he could see part of an eye, wildly shifting, its gaze constantly on the move, never standing still or more than a mere moment. It was searching, and when it stopped, it had found what he was looking for, and his body faded from where he stood in order to hunt down his next victim.

A man screamed as Kirk plunged the sword into his stomach, the jagged barbs along the blade slicing up the flesh, creating wounds that would not easily heal, spilling blood onto the ground. After that another man fell to the ground, his face split open when the shield, covered in sharp and rusted spikes, met with his face, puncturing the skin and cracking the skull. Then there was a woman who tried to crawl away, but Kirk simply stepped on her back, pinning her to the ground, before he plunged his sword into the back of her neck.

They were only some of the early ones, and they were followed by so many others, he honestly began to forget how many exactly.

After so many years, Kirk, Knight of Thorns, found himself drenched in a sea of blood without so much as a lifeboat. He was drowning, and he wished for air, and in his palms sat the small black sprite, heavy despite its floaty appearance, giving off the small warm light. He had collected so many of them, taken them from the bodies of so many

But then...

"If you dare lay one hand on the Fair Lady, you will suffer my wrath!" said in the invalid bastard crawling on the ground before him. It would be so easy to kill this creature, but for once, Kirk chose to let someone live.

Then there was the girl; sickly pale, malnourished, blind, deformed, mute and diseased.

He crushed one of the Humanities in front of her, the black light giving off a small explosion before escaping into her body. She then gave off a small gasp, relief, and the shivering lessened, if only somewhat.

The invalid explained to him, about the blight the puss, the plague, of the Chaos. She ended up confusing Kirk, making him question what he knew. How could a being do something like this when they knew it would hurt them so much? Self-sacrifice was nothing more than an idea for the weak and stupid, yet this woman before him had done these things, knowing what would happen to her.

Could she be his salvation? Could she heal him as well?


	30. Astrologist

**Astrologist**

 _Cloths worn by astrologist in Melifa. Astrologist believe that magical power can be obtained at moments of heavenly alignment._

 _Even the collective wisdom of the Melfian Magic Academy cannot pull magic out of the sky, but the ideas of the astrologist led to the creation of new and very useful magic devices._

The crystal hummed in its glass case, giving off the occasionally glimmer as it slowly spun in place beneath the thick surface. The Astrologist carefully examined the crystal, jotting down several notes onto the scroll at his side before returning his eyes back to the eyepiece of his equipment. The device in question was a telescope, and a massive one at that, a colossal thing that peered through the opening of the roof of the uppermost tower of the Academy. On the side of the device, he slightly turned a knob, and the telescope shifted in its location, and the stars and heavens changed before his very eye.

Down below him, in the lower levels of the observatory, a door opened, and he turned his attention away from his studies to see who would possibly be here at this time of night.

"Carhillion?" the Astrologist asked, questioningly asked, seeing his colleague enter the room.

"Oh, good evening," Carhillion said, sparing him a glance before turning back tot he tables filled with maps books, and various pieces of parchment. "I was wonder if I could ask you a question, if I could borrow something from you."

"Borrow?" the Astrologist asked, leaning against the wooden railings, carefully eying the man as he looked over his belongings. "What exactly do you intend to borrow exactly?"

"I am going on an extended leave of absence," Carhillion said, picking an item off the cluttered desk. "Ah, here it is." In his hand was a small wooden box with a glass cover on the top, a small pointed crystal floating underneath it, and a red ring surrounding it.

"A compass?" the Astrologist said, looking curiously at the man. "Oh, are you honestly going to Drangelic?" He gave a heavy sigh. "Honestly man, how many times have you proclaimed your intents to leave? Most of us have long since decided we no longer cared about your ramblings."

"These are not rambles!" Carhillion said sharply, turning and looking up. "I have grown tired of these discussions and arguments of sorcery, its origins, applications and whatnot, they are always the same, and in the end we can never reach a common ground on any matter. I am going to Drangelic because I believe I can learn more there than I can by remaining in this stilted academy. Sorcery, Miracles, Pyromancy, Hexes, it is all nothing but a circular discussion that never leads to anything new." He sneered. "Worst case scenario it will at the very least be different."

"And do you think you will make it to Drangelic in the first place?"

"Of course," Carhillion pocketed the compass and made his way to the door. "Do you even know who I am?" With that line, he left, leaving the Astrologist alone.

He shook his head at the wizard's departure. While he did agree with Carhillion that discussion here had become somewhat stilted, he had felt that new knowledge could be found elsewhere, though not in other lands.

But in the cosmos themselves.


	31. King

**King**

 _Armor of Vendrick, King of Drangelic._

 _What makes a king? Some say that it is birthright, while others call it destiny._

 _Perhaps it is not important, as long as the king's name serves to unite his people._

Vendrick blinked, and time had passed. He wasn't certain how much, but he knew it was too much, but already, he could feel his mind beginning to slip away, like trying to hold onto sand. He looked down at the crown in his hands, and he could feel himself almost laugh in disgust at the sight of it.

Once, he wore it with pride, as a symbol of his strength and courage, the will to lead his beloved people. It was created for me, forged from rare metals, after he defeated the Old Ones, the four powerful beings with old souls, that rested and hid away in this land, using their power to create his empire, to increase his own power and strength until he was, literally, many times the man he once was. Decades passed, and facts became rumors and then legends. He tried to fight the way of the world, its natural order to constantly turn on itself, and he lost everything he had built around himself.

Now where was he? Alone, in the dark, his heart filled with regrets, and his chest hollow from the space where his soul once burned brightly.

Should he have allowed Aldia to continue with his experiments, regardless how horrific they had become? Should he have forced Velstadt and his men to leave him instead of dragging them down with him? Should he have given more thought to Raime's accusations? Should he...

Oh Nashandra, his dear, dear Shandra... It was obvious to what she was now, but despite this, knowing she was a creature of the purest dark who sough to satiate its own lust for power, he found he still loved her more than anything. He could never raise a sword to her, to put a halt to her Age of Dark, all he could do was put the key to her goals behind so many locked doors while hiding away himself like a coward.

His dear queen, ironically, was the only light left in the darkness of his dwindling life.

Was it wrong to have fallen in love in the first place? To become so enraptured by her, to the point that she became the center of his universe? Maybe, perhaps, but he didn't know anymore. If given the chance, he would not change that fact, to love her, but he knew he would have done so many things differently as a result, and perhaps he would not have left his kingdom to fall apart and rot.

Drangelic would become just another kingdom of legend, and he another nameless king. The Sunken King, the Old Iron King, the Ivory King, the Lord of Sunlight, all great and powerful men who were no nothing more than footnotes in history texts. He had been so close in the end too, to taking a step forward to freeing men from the cycle of the world, but alas, it was not to be, this foolish errand he had long ago set out to right.

Really, he was more of a jester than a king.


	32. Wanderer

**Wanderer**

 _Leathers of an aimless traveler. Made from sturdy leather, it offers protection versus wind and rain._

 _Battle comes with the territory when one wanders the land, and this coat provides a certain degree of protection._

 _Light and sturdy, made for long journeys._

The sound of groaning was what woke her up. Carefully, she reached over with one hand to grab her sword, rolled over onto her stomach, and crawled forward, over the creaky wood and the dried straw until she could peer over the edge of the upper level of the barn. Outside she could hear the sound of rain, lightly pelting the wood of her temporary shelter, pouring through the open holes of the roof, and down below were several Hollows.

What could have brought them in here? Did Hollows not like the rain? Did they have enough sense of self to be bothered by water falling from the sky? Hopefully she would never have to find out.

Slowly creeping up onto her feet, she plunged down and landed on the Hollow directly below, her sword cleaving its skull in half as her body crushed it beneath her weight. At the sound of its breaking bones, the rest of the Hollows turned on her and wildly flailed their arms at her, rusty, broken daggers gripped tightly in hands. She raised her shield to block the blows, but the leather and wood did a poor job and was knocked out of the way.

The shield was slipped off the arm and onto her back, as she drew her other sword. With a leap forward she cut off the attack Hollow's arms before kicking it back into the other oncoming ones, knocking them to the ground. With the chance presented to her, she ran forward and stabbed downward on them, both swords going through the heads of two of them. With a pull of her arm, the sword exited out the side of one Hollow, and into the head of the remaining one, leaving her alone with only corpses.

Putting away her weapons, she looted the bodies, to see if there was anything of value on them, but all there was to be found was a single Titanite Shard. It wasn't nothing, but the current gear she was using was had already been upgraded enough to the point where she would need stronger stuff than this.

The doors then began to rattle and bang and she heard more Hollows, much more, at the door, now open, as more than a dozen of them began to pile into the barn.

She could have fought, but instead she turned around and hopped out the open window, her boots splattering into the mud, and the cold rain pelting against the leathers of her coat. Pulling her hood up and dashed into the raining day and into the forest, soon out of sight of the Hollows.

Despite the sudden departure, she still knew where she was heading, and she was only a few days away from the undead kingdom.


	33. Royal Swordsman

**Royal Swordsman**

 _Armor of a royal swordsman. Its shape provides defense while allowing great mobility Stripped of ornamentation, this set is designed strictly for battle._

 _King Vendrick supplied his bravest men with the best armor available to face the great giants, but very few returned alive._

The Swordsman looked over the the edge of the tower and into the moonlit sea, and into the horizon, and the pale reflection that was cast over the calm waters by the celestial shapes above. It was a sight he knew well, having been stationed here, this offshore prison, for years, without ever setting foot on the mainland. Personally, he did not like it, being in this dilapidated, sea-trapped prison, filled with with the mad Undead, the Hollowed, be they prisoner or guard from the previous rule, and the occasional attack from a stray gargoyle. One day, they'd make certain to find out how to get to that bell tower, and maybe even put a stop to those maddening laughs that could be occasionally heard through the thick stone walls and the salt-filled air.

Behind him, the sounds of creaking wood and rattling chains began to slow down, and the rickety elevator came to a stop, and from it stepped off his fellow guards.

"Did everything go alright down there?" the Swordsman asked, turning around and walking into the darkly lit room.

"It did," said one of the other guards, the sergeant of the group. "We managed to get the prisoner down to the cell in Sinner's Rise, though it wasn't too difficult as she was very compliant to our orders."

The Swordsman leaned forward slightly. "And what of Lord Aldia's, um, 'pets'? Did they give you any trouble?

"Us? No." The Sergeant shook his head. "They didn't even touch us, in fact, they seemed to avoid us altogether. It was defiantly that woman, whatever she it, it was enough to frighten to abominations away."

"Did Lord Aldia ever mention who she was exactly?"

"No, he never did. All he said was that she was someone of grave importance, that she was to be kept in Sinner's Rise until further determined, and that under no circumstances is no one to even go near there. We are also meant to never speak to anyone about her, she is the utmost secret."

"Why do you think Lord Aldia wants her even locked up in the first place? What sort of crime did she commit to be locked away down there?"

"I can't say, but I do not feel as though she is here unwillingly." The Sergeant turned back to the elevator. "As I said, she followed all our orders, made no attempts to escape, and seemed more than willing to be chained up. Whoever she is, I think she wants to be locked up."

The Swordsman looked at the Sergeant in confusion. "Why would _anyone_ want to be locked up here?"

"Can't say," the Sergeant said, solemnly. "Whatever she's done is solely on her head. We're guards, not judges, remember that." With that he left, leaving the swordsman to his thoughts.

Sometime, he wondered if he really was a guard, and not just a prisoner in a suit of armor.


	34. Gyrm (Warrior)

**Gyrm (Warrior)**

 _Armor of the nomadic Gyrm. Excellent poise and defense, but very heavy._

 _The stocky Gyrm are kind-natured, but humans deemed them impure, and drove them underground. Most Gyrm descendants refuse contact with outsiders, and live with a sense of deep contempt for those who exiled them._

Chug-chug-chug-chug.

Gavlan lowered his mug, the frothy drink stuck to his beard, and let out a loud and contempt sigh. This ale, whatever it was, was certainly a good stock, and he was more than glad enough to have a barrel to bring with him on his journey through Drangelic. The weight of the full barrel was of little burden to him, his own frame stocky and thick, and having the sense numbing drink made things easier for him. For a time, Gavlan sang aloud, in his own language, the jolly drinking song echoing through the wet caves, bouncing off the walls and right back at him. Even though it was only his own voice, it was nice to hear another voice calling back to him, singing the words of his own folklore, his own tongue.

Eventually, an adventurer came along.

"With Galvan you wheel, you deal," he said with enthusiasm, in broken human. He was well aware that the quality of his human speech was not the greatest, but it was more than enough to get across to humans what he wanted from them, and how they could help each other. They bought, some arrows, as well as knives, all of this merchandise related to poison. Wherever they were planning on going today, they were certainly going in prepared. Maybe back to the Harvest Valley? He had seen the land had been mostly stripped of any useful resources, but he also knew that some of the Hollowed residents carried precious stones. Maybe even the Black Gulch, down deep in the earth, below even where the Gyrm had not dared to go.

The adventurer then made to leave.

"You, go now?" Gavlan grunted out, but the adventurer did not even spare a second glance before they had vanished around the corner, leaving Gavlan to himself, once again.

More time passed, and Galvan placed down his mug, tucking it into a corner of the stone wall, where it fit snugly between the weathered stone, and made his way out the cave.

He looked up to one of the above ledges and saw one of the rats that had taken residence in caves, and judging from its large size, he could only guess it was the Rat King. There had always been an understanding between the rats and the Gyrm, and while Gavlan would have liked a more meaningful relationship than mere tolerance, the Rat King was a difficult creature to impress. After it had taken a deep look at him, the Rat King vanished.

He stopped then, and looked forward, where he could see two Gyrm, both with there backs to him. He would have loved nothing more then to approach them, to talk and laugh with them again, but he knew that would never happen. Lonesome Gavlan trudged back from the Hollows and back to his small nook and picked up his drink again.

Chug-chug-chug-chug.


	35. Sorcerer

**Sorcerer**

 _Clothes worn by proper sorcerers who studied at Vinheim Dragon School._

 _The majority take pride in having studied at the academy and look down on breaking the formal dress code established for sorcerers._

The young Sorcerer flipped through the old pages of the text book, the soft sounds of the lightly wafting through the air of the library, accompanied by the sounds of other books being read, and quills being placed down to parchment. He turned back to his papers and looked carefully at his notes and diagrams, before making a small note.

The silence was then shattered as the double doors at the end of library slammed open and loud shouting filled the room.

"Logan you old fool!" cried the old voice of the Master Velsen, the Headmaster of the Vinheim Dragon School.

Each student abandoned their studies and turned to where the noises had come from, before turning to one another, unsure as to what to do next.

"You call me a fool?" answered back the voice of Master Logan, Old Big Hat. It was closer than Velsen's voice, and they could all hear the quickly approaching footsteps coming from between the towering bookshelves. "How am I a fool for actually wanting to put any sort of understanding to our history?!"

Suddenly, both Logan, Velsen, and several other of the elder teachers came into view. Logan stormed away from them, hand clutched white around his staff.

"Logan, be reasonable!" called out one of the teachers behind Velsen. "We do understand out history, that is why we teach it to the younger generations!"

"Do we understand?" Logan snapped, turning to face his fellow academics, causing them to stop in their tracks, almost stumbling into each other. "Or do we simply repeat what we were taught?"

"Logan please, this isn't the place-" Velsen tried.

"You are right for once," Logan sneered. "I have always believed that you are never too old to learn anything new, and you have taught me that this school is not a place for higher learning, but it is a place where knowledge goes stagnant!" he bellowed. "We learn and teach without any true understanding on how our magics work, on how they work in conjunction with the power of souls, or even how they originated! Learning for the sake of learning is meaningless unless you actually understand the material you are studying."

The other teachers tried to talk back, but Logan did not give them the chance. He turned away from them and stormed off, leaving the library, slamming the doors behind him.

The students began to whisper and murmur to themselves and to each other.

"Everyone back to your studies!" Velsen called out, before he and the others chased after Logan.


	36. Durgo's Hat

**Durgo's Hat**

 _Monoclad hat favored by Blue-Eyed Durgo. Extends arrow range._

 _The hero Durgo, an expert bowman, and his brother-in-law defended their homeland from aggressors. In spite of Lanafir's policy of isolationism, Durgo was well known even beyond its domain._

The wind howled fiercely, the wind almost like knives, cutting through clothes and armor like they were not even present, and striking directly to the bone with a deep and piercing cold.

Moving slowly through the thick snow, the hollowed soldier made its way through its rounds, an impulse that was left from the remains of its minds. The cold and wind did not bother it in the slightest, in fact, if it were still capable of feeling anything anymore, it would have felt right at home. The magic that protected this city, keeping it in an eternal blizzard, had its affect on those who remained in the city, growing spikes of ice from their very bodies, infusing them with ice and cold.

In the distance, beneath the wind, there was a loud snap.

The Hollow turned its head, looking through the thick blizzard, trying to pinpoint where the sound had come from. Its entire body then snapped to the left, slamming right into an ice-covered wall and remained pinned there by the massive spear going through its sides.

In the distance, on a rampart out of the Hollow's range of sight, Blue-Eyed Durgo raised one hand and gently gripped the monocle attachment of his cap. Twisting the dial slightly, the magnifying glass adjusted itself, enhancing his vision and zooming forward and allowing him to see much further than before. He moved his head slowly, scanning the area for more targets to shoot, looking past the flurry of snow.

He found one after a short time, another ice crystal-covered hollow. Without taking his eye off the Hollow, he reached behind his back and pulled out a large iron spike, a greatarrow, and loaded it into the greatbow. With a grunt, he pulled on the thick rope, causing it to groan from the stress as the curved wood bent with tremendous pressure, but despite this, Durgo held it with a sturdy hand as he waited for the proper moment to release it.

Release it he did.

The bow snapped into place as he hand let bow of the rope, sending the arrow forward with enough force to go through trees, whistling as it flew. In in his vision, he saw the arrow pierce right through the Hollow, sending it flying and off the rooftop it had been standing on and into the whiteness below.

With it gone, he scanned the area further, but saw nothing in the blizzard. Feeling that he had eliminated enough enemies from the general vicinity, he raised his greatbow, freeing it from its anchor in the ground, and slipped it around his shoulders and over his back.

Grabbing the brim of his hat, Durgo continued forward.


	37. Lion Warrior-Mage

**Lion Warrior/Mage**

 _The Lion Clan are an offshoot race that have no ties to humans, and would murder anyone with the curious notion of approaching them._

 _The Lion clansmen seem to despise own looks, as they hate being seen. They appeared in historical records quite abruptly, as if one day they climbed up and out of the depths of the very earth itself._

The cave was dark, but not nearly dark enough. A weak sunlight beamed down from the hole above him, and down on the lower levels he could hear the light croaking the giant lizards, and the soft glows of the pools of acid that they sat near.

Darkdiver Grandahl sat in his chair, and looked to smooth stone platform, surrounded by stone pillars, and lightly stroked his beard, and with the other placed on the sacred chime that hung from the side of his chair. He sat calmly, staring and observing it, imagining the new levels of dark that could be down there in the abyss. Taking his hand away from his beard, her reached into the satchel on the other side of his chair and pulled out a Human Effigy, the small, wicker-like remains of the darkness that rested in man. Then he crushed it, and instead of the dark flowing into his body to went to the structure before him, and the room filled with a dark light as the portal to the Dark Chasm of Old opened up.

From the dark he could hear it, feel it in his bones. All the portals were connected, but not all of them close enough to what he was looking for.

A groan came from the ground, and Grandahl looked down to the bound Lion Warrior by his side. The creature was waking up, and would soon try and to attack him, but it would not succeed.

"Such a strange creature," he said, as it began to groggily move to its feet. "I know much about this land, from every dark crevice there is, to the highest mountaintop, yet despite this I have discovered very little of you and your kind." Leaning forward he peered down at the creature as it stood to its feet. "What are you exactly, some sort of monster born from Dark? A mutation as the result of hollow? Some sort of unnatural bastard, created by some sort of deranged force?" Giving off a small laugh, he leaned back into his chair, into the soft lining, as the Lion Warrior turned to him. It gave off a groggy roar and charged at him, but Grandahl waved a hand, and a wave of dark swiped across the cave, sweeping it back into the portal, and it was gone.

"Nonetheless," he said, now alone. "You hold a fragment of Dark inside you, so at the very least you can test the waters, and see if what I seek is in these depths."


	38. Rampart Golem

**Rampart Golem**

 _Armor of the Rampart Golem, granted life by the Ivory Kind._

 _The golems were charged with the containment of the creatures of chaos within the boundaries of the wall._

 _When the doors of Eleum Loyce were flung open, the place turned frigid and lifeless, but golems remained dutiful on guard._

The sun streaked across the flat and icy horizon, snow being kicked into the air by the wind.

Looking over the vast icy wasteland, the Golem stood perfectly still. It felt no cold, as ice having long since encased its armor and equipment, and in fact had no body at all. Inside its chest piece was a small flame of Life, carefully extracted the what lay far beneath the Grand Cathedral, and used to give it life.

Behind it, deep within the walls of Eleum Loyce, something screamed.

Instantly the Golem hiked up its lance and turned around and moved behind the doors and into the city proper, only to be bombarded with thick blizzard, ice and snow covering everything, a blanket of white. The shambling of iced-over armor could be heard over the fierce winds, and in the distance a burning glow could be seen, coming from the Cathedral, and all of them rushed towards the light and the screaming continued. It was an inhuman sound, a horrific screeches poisoned the air, almost rising above the winds themselves, and it didn't take long to find the source, roaming the empty, long-abandoned pathways of the city.

The creature was tall and human-like, two large cleavers in its hands and a head the shape of the skull of a goat. Already, ice was beginning to form on its skin, creating twisted and sharp spikes, that grew along its spine, shoulders and even extended to its skull and horns. Upon seeing the Golem, it made a scream and charged at it, one cleaver raised into the air before swinging it down, but the Golem caught it on its shield and used its lance to pierce its stomach, and long thin spikes of ice erupted from its abdomen. That however was not enough to stop it and swung down with the other cleave, cutting into the Golem's shoulder.

It gave no registry to the attack and pushed the demon back hard, causing it to fall to its back. As it scrambled back to its feet, the Golem gripping its lance tightly and thrust the weapon forward, and a burst of magic came to life, striking the demon in the head, taking out a large chunk of its head.

At this point the other Golems caught up, just as the creature died, fading away into thin air, and they all ran forward, never stopping until they came to the outer gates of the Grand Cathedral.

More demons were present, more goat-like beasts, strange creatures that were nothing up large toothy mouths and tentacles, and in the back, Avaa could be seen grappling with a giant bull just as large as her. All of them were affected by the storm, each one covered in frost and ice, a result of the corruption of the Old Chaos, something that was not limited to the spawned demons. Around them, ice itself had taken a life and was beginning to slowly move.

The Golem charged into battle, to protect the Silent Oracle, and to see the breach.

This wasn't the first time something like this had happened.


	39. Velstadt

**Velstadt**

 _Armor worn by the Royal Aegis._

 _Originally imbued with the power of miracles, now soaked in the dark after extended exposure in the Undead Crypt._

 _A knight from a faraway land was lured to this accursed land, but forgot even why he came, eventually reduced to a shadow of his former self._

"Are you certain, My Lord?" Velstadt asked aloud.

Before him, King Vendrick came to a stop, and turned to his most faithful knight.

"Velstadt," he said, looking more tired and defeated than he had ever seen him in all the years he had known him. "Yes, I am more than certain about this, it is the only thing I feel myself capable of doing in the state I put myself in. Everything that happened to the kingdom was a result of my own unwillingness to become a slave to this world's way, and as a result so many men and women have suffered fates worse than death." He raised his hand and looked to his palm, to the gold ring on his finger. "For the sake of love, I made a mistake, and in order to make sure than Nashandra does not get her Age of Dark, I need to make certain that this ring forever remains out of her grasp." He looked back to Velstadt. "As I said before, you and the others can leave, I have long since dismissed you from my service. You do not deserve the fate I have placed myself in, to rot down here with myself."

"King Vendrick I would never abandon you," Velstadt said, his voice strong, filled with determination. "As I said before, we are your swords and shields, we have followed you into countless battles, and served under you since the kingdom was young. We swore a long time ago that we would live and die by your word, and would be at your side even to the deepest regions of hell, and this place is as close to hell as we may ever get.

Vendrick gave a hearty chuckle. "I didn't expect anything else, especially coming from you of all people, despite all the mistake that I have made."

A heavy silence hung over them, as they both knew what was happening soon. Vendrick raised a hand to his chest, lightly stroking it through his armor.

"Goodby, Velstadt," Vendrick said, his voice heavy and sorrowful. "It has been an honor to have known you."

"Farewell, My Lord," Velstadt answered back, and with this, Vendrick descended down the stairs and into the darkened room below. The Aegis turned around and knelt down, the bell of his hammer hanging over his head, and he waited. He waited for a very long time, unmoving from where he was, and from there, he could see that none of the Syan Knights had moved as well. From behind him, he heard nothing.

Eventually, he heard groans, and the constant sound of metal being dragged along stone.


	40. Hollow Thief

**Hollow Thief**

 _Clothes worn by Hollow Thieves. Used to hide a guilty countenance._

 _It stifles noise and helps its wearer hide in the shadows._

The Thief sat behind a door, his back to the wall and his knife in his hand, sliding the blade against the sharpening stone he held. Slowly the blade slid across the stone, sparks coming off where metal scrapped against rock, the blade becoming sharper, stroke by stroke. Next to him rested a large canine, its skin saggy and rotted, detaching from the flesh and bone, and in its maws it gnawed on a large bone. The dog has never attacked him, unlike anyone else who had the displeasure of coming through this part of town. He never felt sorry for them, however, as anyone coming down the lower sections of the burg should know full well what waited down there. Maybe it didn't attack him because he was getting close to being to far gone? Maybe, but either way he found himself not caring.

The house he currently found himself hold up in was rather sparse and small, likely owned by a single person, or even a small family with little money, but whoever lived here once was long gone. The only furnishing in the room were a pile of thick blankets in the corner and the rickety remains of a table, covered in various valuable trinkets, and chair in the other. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had slept or ate. Suddenly, the dog raised its head, pointing it towards the open window, began to growl.

Putting the sharpening stone down, the Thief slowly got up and peaked over the windowsill to see into the street, and saw a lone, wanderer. He walked slowly down the middle of the street, a swung slung over his shoulder and a shield at his side, the armor he was was thick clothes and armor with a thick ans study helm.

Seeing him, the Their pushed himself to his feet and crept to the door, waited a few seconds and pushed it open with a great force. He was not the only one to have done this.

The wanderer turned around to face him, but then quickly turned back, shield raised, as the rest of the Thief's group appeared from the abandoned and dilapidated houses. The wanderer made to attack on them, but the Thief came at him from behind, hooking his knife around his neck and slitting it straight across.

He must have been Undead, as the wound did not kill him instantly, but then the dogs came. He put up a fight, but in the end, numbers are numbers, and soon he died with a knife in his back. They looted his body, taking what valuables they could, before dividing it amongst themselves and returning to their respective houses.

The Thief tossed the ring he had gotten onto the table before he retook his place at the wall, and continued to sharpen his knife.

At this point, it was the only thing he could.


	41. Hexer

**Hexer**

 _Clothes worn by a hexer. Belonged to Felkin the Outcast._

 _Hexing appears to be an offshoot of sorcery, but its specific origins are unknown. Those who have a taste of dark are drawn into its vortex and rarely return._

 _Perhaps it appeals to something deep within the human soul._

Felkin strode softly through the silent halls, ignoring any and all distractions he would come across. To his right was what appeared to be a carriage, and it was rocking, like there was something trapped in there, but to him it was of no importance. Beyond it, just in front of him was a large set of double doors, he opened them to the entrance hall of the castle, and quickly took a breath to the sight before him. It was a dragon, or at least its skeleton. He had heard the tale of dragons, and drakes, but had never seen one in person, and while the sight before him was impressive, it was not what he came here for.

He carefully looked around the white hall, stepping over rubble and the effects of age that had befallen the keep in the time it had gone abandoned. Other than the dragon, he had found several other interesting things in here, a giant stone statue of an ogre, standing in the middle of the stairway, and massive basilisk in a cage at the top. Beyond the basilisk was another set of doors, and from behind it he could hear odd sounds, growls and whispers, and it made him wonder what sort of oddities this place held, and if even half the rumors he heard were true.

Wanting to explore more of the hall before he continued, he traveled back to the lower floors, and found a corpse, clutching a staff in its hands. It was long and metal, with a white orb at the top, surrounded by constantly revolving ring, and in his hands, it felt right. This was a catalyst for Dark.

"Are you going to take that from me?" asked a deep and menacing voice. Felkin turned and looked down the hall and saw a smokey barrier, and behind it was a hooded man sitting on a chair. "That would be a very unwise decision on your part.

"You are you to tell me this?" Felkin asked, his voice sore from disuse.

The man laughed. "Does that matter to the likes of you? No, I don't think so. All you need to know is that scepter is to not leave this place, it was created for horrific purposes in mind, to be used for dark rituals that you could not possibly comprehend." The man raised his head slightly, though not enough for Felkin to see his face. "That staff belonged to an insane man who tried to to tear apart the fabric of the world once, it is nothing but cursed."

Felkin looked back to the staff in his hands, memorized by the spinning rings, and the power coming from within it. "I can feel, the Dark," he said, his voice in awe. "This is what I've been looking for, I can see this. This, was made with Dark in mind." He then turned around and began to walk away.

"Another seeker of Dark?" the man asked. "If you leave here with that staff, you will one day regret it."

Felkin paid the man no mind, and simply left.


	42. Hollow Soldier-Warrior

**Hollow Soldier/Warrior**

 _Armor worn by hollowed soldiers and warriors. Although it is made of iron, it is old, battered and worn out, but its construction makes it quiet sturdy._

 _It is made of thick leather that is tattered with age, that is barely served its purpose anymore._

"Come on! Get them going, we need to get as many of our people out of here as possible!" cried the captain.

"But where sir?" answered back the corporal.

The captain gave a gruff sigh in response and looked over the wall to the burg's streets below, and saw that chaos had begun to overtake the town. Hollows were running rampant in the streets, running down humans who found themselves trapped in deadend alleyways, and even the living were taking advantage of the sudden lawlessness of situation, raiding houses, killing anyone who had crossed their paths and then pillaging the bodies of whatever valuables they had.

He wasn't entirely certain which was the worst situation.

"How did the Curse spread so fast?" the corporal asked. "I thought it took awhile before the Curse actually turned people into Hollows? So why is everything going to hell all of a sudden?"

"You think I'm an expert on how this thing works?" the captain growled. "No one knows how the infection spreads exactly! I had a brother who made sure to avoid the Undead like the plague they are, and then one day he's Cursed himself! Within the following week he was just as Hollowed as those poor souls down there, and nothing we could have done could have prevented it."

Turning around he looked away from the lower burg and back to his men, or at least what remained of them. Before tonight he had at least fifty men under his command, each one charged with the safety of this section of the city, but now he was reduced to a dozen, each one injured to some extent. The rest has either been killed by the mobs, lost in the darkness, fires and chaos, and a few of the bastards even went as far to join in with the riots.

"All right men!" the captain called out loudly, rallying his men to attention. "I will not lie to you, but the burg seems to be lost, we will not be able to save it from this sorry state. The most we can do is to try and salvage what we can, and save who remains. Not far from here is an entrance to the aqueduct, just down the street there, and from there is a gate to the open that leads to an old shrine with a bonfire as well as a Firekeeper. We'll spend the night trying to find as many civilians as we possibly can and escort them to the shrine so they can be safe." He raised his sword and clanked it against his shield. "We will not let this Curse beat us!" he cried.

His men followed his example, and charged into battle.


	43. Rouge

**Rouge**

 _Clothes worn by Hollowed Thieves._

 _The hood is a primarily intended to hide the face of the wearer, and is of no practical value as defensive gear._

 _Despite its crude appearance, this armor is surprising sturdy._

The Rouge blinked his eyes wearily, and stared into the fire, a mass of burning bodies draped over one another, chained together by the once held down the prisoners of this area. Once, he found it funny that the prisoner wards who watched over the Iron King's sporting grounds would find themselves held down by the very tools they once used on the Undeads. He didn't anymore though, and he was unsure even when was the last time he had really cared. It had been a very long time since he had taken part in that uprising, breaking from his cell, killing the guards and lords who called the Huntsman Copse their domain. This land belonged to them now, and nothing could tell them else wise, and any who enter were subject to their own brand of laws and rules.

In the distance, he could hear fighting, swords clashing against armor, and cutting limbs, hacking away flesh. It wasn't an unfamiliar sound, all sorts of folk came through this area, and it wasn't often for the Brotherhood of Blood to appear every once and a while.

He then groaned and found himself in the dark, between the trees. When had that happened? He didn't remember moving, did he? Taking a hand to his face, he rubbed into his eyes, feeling the Hollowed and rotted skin beneath his fingertips. Just how far was he gone? A deep chill filled the air briefly, making it feel heavier. Had he given them some thought before? He honestly couldn't tell.

Then, emerging from the dark of the night, was a traveler. They wore armor and cloth, and held a spear and large shield in their hands and were making their way up the hill, as if in a rush, making their way to the iron bridge, and right into their ambush.

They all ran at the traveler, each one attacking from a different angle, raising swords and daggers poised to attack, him included with his own club, but the traveler turned around and thrust their spear right into the gut of one of the other Rouges, a burst of lighting coursing through their body as the spear was dug out of their flesh and they dropped to the ground. Another Rouge came from behind, but the traveler quickly rolled out of the way.

He was about to go in for his own attack when the sight of bright red came into view. One of the Brotherhood had come out to play. They wore very little armor, flowing garments really, and in their hands were a twinblade. Coming up on the traveler's blind spot, they swung the twinblade, cutting deeply into their back before stabbing forward. The traveler tried to fight back, but dodged out of the way of another Rouge.

Watching them fight, he held no malice towards the Invader, only for the traveler, and even though he did not consider them allies, he rushed forward to attack, bringing his own club down on their skull.


	44. Dragon Acolyte

**Dragon Acolyte**

 _Clothes worn by the acolytes of Aldia._

 _Several of the greatest minds converged in Aldia to weave strange new rituals, but rumors suggest that during the course of their work their thoughts were not their own._

 _The nebulous face of the mask is designed to deflect the ire of the ritual sacrifice. The white robe and gloves to bear the brunt of the ritual's gushing blood. The boots to prevent the acolyte from slipping on the blood of the sacrifices._

The instrument in his hand was coated in Undead blood, as well as the blood of many more specimens. With the other hand the Acolyte took a pencil and scratched down notes into the dirty notepad, marking down observations and theories on where the experiment.

Before him on the table, the subject groaned, but was quickly silenced by the Acolyte bringing down the blunt end of his tool on the side of their head. With him being reminded of where he was, he placed a hand on the naked chest of the Hollow, strapped down at the arms, legs and neck, holding it down, while flipping the tool in his other hand. He swung down, the sharp and jagged edge pierced the sternum of the Hollow, which then awoke and screamed loudly, filling the small, candle-lit chamber, but they went ignored for the most part.

The chest was then broken apart, opened up and pinned down like a visceral-coated butterfly, leaving the rotted organs exposed to the stale air. Placing his tool back on the table, the Acolyte reached into the pouch on his apron and withdrew a small scalpel and a metal prod. Using them he began to carefully cut open and move apart the unmoving organs filled with thick and unmoving blood, the putrid smell filling the room, but his smooth and reflective mask preventing the smell from reaching his own nose.

Eventually he stopped, the but Hollow kept screaming, though the noises and its protests began to weaken and die down. The Acolyte replaced his tools into his apron and unlocked the Hollow from their shackles, before carelessly dragging it off the table, dragging a dark trail of blood on the floor, before tossing it into the hole in the center of the room.

It landed with a splash as it hit the burning yellow acid, its screaming returning with a painful vigor, its arms and legs trashing about ad its features and skin began to melt and burn away. However its suffering did not last long as it was attacked by several massive mutant hounds, skinless and mouths filled with teeth. They tore it apart, grabbing it with their teeth and ripping its limbs from the torso, and soon the screaming stopped altogether, only to be replaced by a gurgling as the head, the only part left of the Hollow, sunk and dissolved into the acid.

The Acolyte paid no mind to this however, and only continued with his notes, and when he was certain he had nothing left to write down, he exited the lab, and went to find Lord Aldia.


	45. Holy

**Holy**

 _Armor worn by the warrior clerics of the Way of White, who are famous for being unyielding in battle._

 _It is rather substantial in size and weight, making the wearer look even bigger than they actually are._

Petrus grumbled to himself, leaning against the wall in his lone corner of Firelink Shrine, trying to figure out his next move on his part. Just why was he here in this loathsome place again? He had been so important back home, so how had he come to this? A noise then sounded off, not too far off, the sounds of rattling chains.

Turning his head, he looked to the direction of the stairs that lead to elevator to the Undead Parish high above. Out of curiosity, he approached the sound, and walked up the stairs to the empty shaft and saw the chains moving at a blurring speed in their respective grooves, and before he could question what the sudden operation of the device, the elevator itself came down, landing down with a passenger on it. The man was dressed in full body armor, dull gold in color, the helmet and chest plate with an odd design, the flat face plate with holes randomly on it, and what looked like two arms wrapped around his chest.

"Oh, I did not expect to meet anyone down here so soon," the man said, looking Petrus up and down. "The last time I was here, there was only the maiden and the miserable bastard."

"When did the elevator become operational?" Petrus asked aloud, ignoring the man somewhat. "I had thought that it had been shut off from the church itself."

"Well as you can see now, it does work well enough," the man answered. "I would imagine that whoever it was that turned it back on was the same person I saw running around up there, easy to tell them apart from any of the Hollows up there."

Petrus gave no response, but gave the statement some though nonetheless. "Oh, forgive me for my rudeness," he said, suddenly. "I am Petrus of Thorolund, and I am here on official business for the Way of White."

"The Way of White you say?" the man said back. "Well, if we are exchanging names, then you may call me Lautrec, Knight of Carim, and you can say that I too am on some business, though it is of the more personal kind."

"Carim?" Petrus hummed. "I've heard one of two things of interest about that kingdom."

"And I can say I've heard the same thing about the Way of White and clerics in general," Lautrec said.

"Well, whatever your intentions here are, I do hope we will be able to coexist with one another in peace," Petrus added.

"Yes, maybe we will," Lautrec replied, lowly.


	46. Infantry

**Infantry**

 _Armor worn by Dragnelic Infantry._

 _A piece of basic, minimal equipment. At least it's light and easy-to-use._

The air hung heavy around the, above their heads, almost like someone had placed a weight on their heads and shoulders, almost more than enough to send them all toppling to the ground. Despite this they all stood their ground, thanks to the years of intense training they had endured under the commanders and leaders, constantly pushing them to be better men and soldiers than they could possibly be. With all of their combat training however, all they were doing was standing by, watching and waiting for the distant battles in the distance to come to them.

The infantrymen stood over the ramparts of the fortress, overlooking the vast ocean before them, and could see the battle taking place on the raging waves, ship against ship. The Dragleic armies had always been strongest with its land forces, its foot soldiers, and knights, and was more the strong enough to take on any rivaling kingdom or nation, but their navy was a weakness, the ships used mostly for trade and transport, not for battle, and the sight they were seeing before them was proof of this fact.

Their navy was being torn apart, the ships blown to bits by fireballs, causing them to splinter and explode as they went down in flames, taking all the men on them with them into the sea. The ships were outnumbered by the enemies, and their numbers were dwindling fast, while the enemy had sustained little damage, possibly none at all.

"The last ship is down!" cried a voice from one of the upper towers. "All men, listen up! We have been relied on borrowed time, and now we must make certain that we have prepared everything we can! The enemy will be here within the half-hour, so we must act quickly! We have received word back from the castle, and reinforcements should be here before the morning arrives! Until then we must fight and defend ourselves!"

One of the infantrymen looked back out to sea, to the sinking remains of their naval fleets, and how their enemies were already on their way here to attack the fort. He picked up his sword and his shield, and placed his helm on top of his head before running down the rampart to join the other infantrymen who were gathering around the catapults. The strung back the firing mechanism, and placed the payload into it, dousing it in oils and other flammable materials, while someone stood next to it with torch, ready to light it up when they needed to fire it. The rest of the catapults were being loaded as well, archers were gathering their bows and arrows and stood by the walls and prepared themselves. Down below he could hear more shouts and yells as the rest of the army made the final preparations for the invasion that would soon come.

The prepared and waited for the Giants to come.


	47. Old Knight

**Old Knight**

 _An old undated set of armor._

 _How old could this nearly-crumbling helmet be? Has extremely low durability._

 _Sometime, just as a things falls to pieces, it unleashes its last flash of great power._

The water was cold and dark, and the light from the sun could be seen dully high above, up where the surface would be. Around them were stone pillars, most still standing upright, while a number of them were reduced to rubble, nothing more than giant rocks littering the sea floor, slowly becoming just another fixture to the environment as the years slowly passed. The Old Knights stood still, holding their weapons and their shields up, waiting for the attack of enemies that would never reach them, while small fish swam around them, but never daring to get to close to any of them.

The centuries had passed certainly, and their once golden armor and dulled to green, and the weapons and armor becoming brittle with age, but standing nonetheless, outlasting the kingdoms they had been built to defend from invaders. The city above them had long ago been abandoned, left behind by those who once resided there, and slowly began to crumble, pieces falling into the ocean until the once grand metropolis had been reduced to mere ruins, a piteous sight coma pared to what it had once been. As it fell into the sea, so did a number of the Old Knights, having stood for an eternity where walkways and streets had once been present.

Above, in the remains of Heide's Tower of Flame, the few remaining knights stood their guard, holding their positions to hold off any intruders to the city, however long they had been there. Their abilities had been greatly reduced over the years, leaving them weakened, and unable to chase after the intruders for long distance, unable to sense them unless they were close, too close. The people who had taken up the cathedral were left alone so long as they stayed out of the way, as the same could be said for the heavily armor knights on either end of this small section of cities, as well as the drake that belonged to one of them.

It was a common theme in Drangelic, as many would notice, that the old would be forgotten, no matter how powerful or widespread they'd once been, and the exact range of Heide's kingdom was unknown, a common subject to talk about amongst the members of the Blue Sentinels who watched the Old Knight from afar, as some would even report to seeing weapons of similar aesthetic to what they used as far off as the poison-filled pilfered land far beyond the mountains.

The Old Knights merely stood there however, never revealing anything about the past, never allowing that knowledge to be used for the future.


	48. (Charred) Loyce

**(Charred) Loyce**

 _These Knights of Loyce were devoted guardians of this land and delved valiantly into the depths of chaos, never to return. The few that survived remain in Eluem Loyce, now frozen over, awaiting the call of their master._

 _Burned black by flames, these Knights of Loyce plunged into the Old Chaos with their lord, and lost their sense of self. To this day, they still burn in agony, alongside their once-proud king._

The heat was sweltering, intense, burning, and it was completely unlike the cold and ice above them. There was also screaming, the horrid sounds of demons who would never cease to spawn from this very hell, so ancient and never-ending. Each one that appeared, most hideous and misshapen than the one before it, and each one growing in power with every defeat lay down upon them.

Sir Fabian plunged his sword into the skull of the attacking demon, a flaming bull beast, cleaving it down the middle, splitting its head open, leaving the body to burn into ashes, and saw the rest of his fellow knights, each one dueling with their respective monsters. They were his best men, the strongest the kingdom had to offer, and all of them were volunteers for this suicide mission. The Old Chaos had become more restless in recent years, strong fluctuations of power radiating from it, creating mutations out in the world, and even the priestesses who kept the force at bay were faltering in their task to suppress it. Even Alsanna, the King' beloved, who had once been able to lull the horrors back to slumber, was unable to keep it down.

He spun on his feet as another demon spawned from the fiery portal in front of him, and he readied himself for more battle. It spewed flames the bursts of fire licking at his shield and armor, scarring them black, before he charged at it, killing it with ease, but nonetheless another one replaced it. Fabian scanned the battlefield, hoping to find something that could help them, something to put a stop to the madness, and that was when he saw him, the Ivory King, towering above his men, his sword alight with magic, and cape bellowing behind him. The full armored man stood still, as before him was the massive gate, where only the most powerful and largest demons spawned from, but the Ivory King merely stood there, as if challenging this force of nature.

Then, before anyone could say anything, he raised his sword, where it exploded with a cold light, and rushed into the portal, through the fires and flames, and a glacier of ice appeared, encasing the whole structure, preventing any more demons from being created. Fabian stood shocked at the sight, as were a many of his fellow knights who had seen the sacrifice, but they knew what they would have to do now, having seen what.

"For Eleum Loyce!" Fabian cried, a cry that was roared back to him, and he charged into the nearest portal, a dozen knights behind him. Upon breaking the surface he felt as though he had dropped himself into the pits of hell itself, and there was so much burning pain erupting through his body.

Using the last of his power, he and his knights released their power and the world exploded into ice, but despite that, he still felt as though he was burning from the inside out.


	49. Chaos

**Chaos**

 _Clothes worn by a chaos sorcerer._

 _The man claims to have sealed himself away, but who's ever heard of sentient magic? It is no doubt difficult to judge to veracity of the man's words, but this hood seems to possess an unusual power._

 _He calls himself Navlaan now._

The keep had been abandoned for centuries, left alone and forgotten by the world at large, hidden away from sight and out of the way of travelers, if anyone found themselves at the gates of this place, it was because they wanted to be here. Inside there was no one left to do research on the soul, the people who had once studied with things with a maddening obsession had either left, died, or had suffered a fate much, much worse. There was however, one person left, or perhaps two.

The man sat by himself, behind a transparent wall of magic, impossible to escape from the inside, he was a prisoner here, as well as his own jail keeper. It was been so very long since he had spoken, and a part of him wondered if he was still capable of speech, but despite this he was in constant conversation.

" _I wonder when someone will come along,"_ thought a part of him, his voice deep and menacing.

" _Never, that was the plan, to find somewhere to hide so that no one will ever come,"_ said another voice his this shared head, this one more timid, trying to stand up to the other voice.

" _Someone will, they always do. From the tops of the Dragon Aerie, to the bottom of the Black Gulch, people will always find a way to explore every nook and cranny of this world. It's only a matter of time."_

" _They won't pull the lever. There's no way anyone would trust you into pulling that lever."_

" _People are stupid, you should know that better than anyone, they do all sorts of things to sate their curiosity, even if they know it can only end poorly for them, the human mind seeks to know things with certainty, despite how morbid their desires to simply know are. You of all people should have known that."_

" _I should have never started with that research, I should have put my foot down when Aldia came to me and asked-"_

" _You would do it again, I know you would, you lack the ability to look into the darkness of the abyss and turn away. Aldia may have been the man who set you on this path, but you are the one who carved it."_

" _And I regret every second of it. I should have burned everything I had back in Majula, set the whole mansion on fire, but now who knows who could stroll in there and take what they like."_

" _Hahaha, oh yes, Majula, the place of my birth. I was always fond of that mansion, such a shame that it is being desecrated by such feeble-mind insects."_

" _You're not going to kill them, I have countermeasure upon countermeasures. Even if someone does free you, you're still never leaving this spot."_

" _Maybe, but there's always a way. Yes, there is always a way."_


	50. Smelter

**Smelter**

 _Armor of the Smelter Demon, a great mass of iron that was given life._

 _The Old Iron King was possessed of a great bounty of ore, but was incinerated by a creature that rose from the infernal depths of the earth._

Eygil stood before the Ironhearth Hall bonfire, the warm glow of the flame enticing her, she found herself unable, unwilling to look away from it. Fire was an amazing thing, something that had been a large part of her life every day for so many years now, that a part of her was having trouble thinking of a time before it, before she came under the employ of the Old Iron King.

"Eygil!" came a loud, booming voice from below the iron staircase and into the next room. Tearing her eyes away from the fire and rushed out of the room, and into Ironhearth Hall proper to meet the audience in it. The first person to catch her eyes was the Old Iron King, standing tall over the small gathering of people, nobles and guests from far-off lands, who had been invited to this event as to witness to this great step forward in their work with iron. The soul was a powerful thing that radiated its influence onto its surroundings, including the flesh of those who bore it, one's physical size was determined by their soul, and the more powerful the soul, the larger the person. Eygil herself had a powerful soul, she stood easily at least a foot above the tallest men in the group, but she found herself dwarfed by the Old Iron King, clad entirely in thick and heavy iron armor and crown, a massive hammer of cooled lava rock on his back. His soul was truly the most powerful she had ever seen.

But even he did not have a power she alone possessed. Standing in the center of the room was a giant suit of heavy iron armor, cold and lifeless, the greatest piece of work to have ever been construed in the factories of the Iron Tower with the finest samples of metal, the most advanced forging techniques, and with the more intense fires they could possibly create. All eyes were on her as she took her position in front of the armor, a behemoth of a creation, sharp spikes, deep grooves, thick plating, and giant horns atop a hallowed face. Behind her, she could hear the Old Iron King giving a speech to the others, but right now she did not care, and focused on the space between her hands and created a flame. The flame was bright and hot, and it continued to grow, taking all her concentration to focus on it, and within her chest, she could feel her souls burn hot, and swell. She had done this before, but nothing like this, nothing to this extent, giving automatism to suits of armor was one thing, but this was LIFE, and she needed this to succeed above all else.

The fire in her palms grew larger and larger by the moment, and she could hear yelling behind her, but all she could focus on was this life-giving fire. She then released it, a miniature sun really, and it flew into the empty space in the armor's stomach, and for a moment, nothing happened, but then there was fire, and the armor came to life.


	51. Brass

**Brass**

 _Armor of the Darkmoon Knightess, Fire Keeper of Anor Londo._

 _After becoming Undead, she visited the Dark Sun Gwyndolin, at the Mausoleum of the Spiral Depths, became a Blade of the Darkmoon, and assumed the flame-keeping duty. She received this armor, which hides her hideous form and helps her hunt down the guilty._

She stood before the stature of Lord Gwyn, standing tall and majestic in this hidden, out of the way chamber, above the graves of the knights who fell in his name, and with the mere action of slipping a ring onto her finger, it vanished. With it gone she descended down he stairway, to a fog gate at the bottom, with a rug surrounded by candles surrounding it, and knelt down on one knee atop it. Reaching into the pouch on her side, she grabbed two items, the first being a talisman made of soft white cloth, which she placed into her other hand, and the second being a severed human ear, still wet with blood. Placing the ear on the ground between her and the fog, she continued to pray, and waited.

" _Thou has returned from the latest trial, has been successful in putting the transgressors to their rightful judgment."_ The voice that came from behind the fog was light, but commanding, and to her the most important sound in her life. _"An impressive feat, to have punished as many sinners as thee, even for the most experienced members of the Darkmoon Blade."_

"Thank you, Master Gwyndolin," she said, her head never raised up, trying to keep the excitement bubbling up in her chest under control she had too much respect to even look into the direction of where he stood behind the fog. "It is an honor to receive such praise from you." This was the first time, in many years that she had ever been praised, or even hearing amongst other members of the Darkmoon Blade for that matter. This was something that could only happen once every hundred years.

" _You are human,"_ the voice said. _"Praise is something not offered lightly, especially to a human of all things."_ There was then a hissing, and a snake appeared through the fog, hovering in the air before it lowered to the ear, grabbing it in its mouth and retreating back through the doorway. _"That will be all for the time being."_

The Darkmoon Knightess stood up and stared at the fog that separated her from her master. She would have given her life to even gaze upon his marvelous face for even a moment, but she knew that her, a lowly and disgusting human, even touching the fog would be a crime and great offense to Him, and she would deserve the death that would be delivered upon her by other members of the Darkmoon. A pitiful human like her would never deserve the prestige of seeing him with her own eyes.

Why was she such a hideous creature by birth?


	52. Dark

**Dark**

 _Armor of the Darkwraiths, former knights of New Londo who descended into Dark._

 _Some say the skeletal mask of an ancient Darkwraith is partially fused with the flesh of its flesh. Their armor transformed, and remains a symbol of the Dark servants and their diabolical art of Lifedrain._

 _No one knows the true identity of these men who are said to freely manipulate dark. Old foreign legends describe them as poor souls who chased the lost art of Lifedrain._

No one was out on the streets at this time of night, or what he had presumed what was night. New Londo was underground, in a giant cave, so the only source of light were the numerous blue, magically-lit lamps and torches that were found all around the city, how bright they were was dependent on the time of day, and with the low and soft lights they were giving off, it was most likely night outside. Occasionally, the dark darkened streets, he could hear low growls and screams.

His head up, his sword clutched in his hand, he walked the streets, keeping an eye out for the shadowy corners and alleyways. Quickly, he looked over his shoulder, feeling as though there was something following him, a deep and heavy presence that acted as his own shadow.

For a moment, he wondered just how true the information was true? He had been sent here, by Sir Artorias himself, to investigate the recent reporting in kidnappings and murders in New Londo, and to see if they were at all linked to the Four Kings' recent cease in communication. There were even some rumors that one of them had been talking to a giant serpent, who spawned from the darkness itself. How much of this could possibly be true.

Suddenly, he heard a woman scream, and he turned down a tight and narrow alleyway, where the noise had come from, and when he reached the end, he saw the body, laid across the ground, blood spilling from the open, gaping wound in her stomach.. Rushing forward, he tried to make certain she was okay, but she was already dead, and before he could even question what had happened, he heard heavy footsteps behind him. Spinning around, he swung his sword, catching the blade of the attacker, and held them back off, and to his shock he caught a good look at its face as he kicked it off.

It was a skeleton, or skeletal armor, with a cowl made of black feathers, wielding a large sword in one hand, and in the other hand glowed a dark red energy. Giving off a low growl, it charged at him again, thrusting the sword at him, but he managed to redirect the attack with his shield, leaving it open to striking it in the side, but swung down, clipping his shoulder. Grunting, he managed to avoid another attack and stab it the the stomach, and pushed it to the ground, where it growled and gurgled to death.

Reaching down, he placed a hand on its skull mask and tried to pull it off, but found that it was stuck to the person's face no matter how hard her tugged. Whatever this creature was, it may have possibly-

A blade was run through his back and out his from, before it was ripped out violently. Feeling the blood fall from his body, he collapsed to the ground, and clutched at himself, but was kicked to the side, and looking up he saw another one of those skeletal warriors. It loomed over him, tall and dark, and knelt down over him, raising the dark that grew darkness right over his face. He tried to fight back, but only weakly, as the hand grew a bright white.


	53. Llewellyn

**Llewellyn**

 _Armor reinforced with rare geisteel. Belonged to Chancellor Wellager._

 _Quality equipment that is both light and strong. Crafted by the castle's resident master smith Llewellyn, and supplied only to a select few._

 _His work is easily identified by its lack of ostentation, Llewellyn focused solely on an economy of simplicity and strength._

Chancellor Wellager stood upon the staircase, looking down as the servants and visitors went about their business around the castle, Drangleic Castle was at the center of the kingdom, and despite the long trek to the remote location in the mountains, it was the where most of the business with nearby, smaller kingdoms, making the trip worth it if they could even get a chance to meet with the king or queen. He had been in service to them for nearly his entire adult life, just like his father before him, and he would remain loyal to them for as long as he could.

Suddenly, a visitor came into view, walking up the stairs towards him. Did they expect to meet the king and queen dressed like that? They looked more like they were ready to go wading through some sort of muddy battlefield, or pillage some sort of underground tomb, not coming here to meet the king and queen...

The king and queen... The king... and queen...

Where had the king gone? Why was this traveler asking about them? King Vendrick had fled of course, the Giants had come, and they attacked as retaliation for the attacks on them. The king ordered attacks on the Giants on words of what the queen said, about what they had and...

No, the king had fled, because of her, because she wanted something from him. He was powerful, but sad, and the queen brought peace and happiness to him, settling his own turmoils like a deep and calm... darkness...

The queen! The king had run because of her, run deep beneath the earth, away from her, to escape and hide to protect what had been taken from the giants! She wanted that more than anything, and the whole kingdom was rotting from the inside out, its entire popular having been reduced to nothing more than soulless monsters, wandering the kingdom to consume what they no longer had. She caused this, didn't she? Maybe... Was Sir Raime correct in his accusations? Should they have listened to him to him before his exile? Could they have managed to prevent all of this from happening?

King Vendrick, no! You must flee, you must get to safety! The Giants are coming, they are upon us even as we speak, tearing through our forces, and soon they will be charging through our front doors. You must retreat though the King's Passage as soon as you can, we will hold the fort and allow you as much time as we possibly can for to you escape. Queen Nashandra, she must not be allowed to claim the prize that was claimed from the Giants in the first place! That was what she wanted all along!

Chancellor Wellager stood upon the staircase, looking down as the servants and visitors went about their business around the castle.


	54. Painting Guardian-Monastery

**Painting Guardian/Monastery**

 _Robe worn by the alabaster-clothes guardians of the painting in Anor Londo. Offer substantial protection versus magic. They have guarded the Great Painting of Ariamis for ages, passing their duty down though the generations, but the reason for doing so passed from all memory long ago._

 _The ceremonial design suggest that they revered whatever it was they watched. The purity of the garment, however, neatly symbolizes the fraudulence found at the very heart of the monastery._

The Cathedral of the Princess of Sunlight was quiet today, mostly so. Today, a few visitors had come from the lower regions of the city to pay homage to Gwynevere, Princess of Sunlight and Daughter to Lord Gwyn. Once this temple had been the second most visited one in the entire city, with Lord Gwyn's own castle having many more, people would gather here in droves, making offerings and prayers to her, in hopes that she was listening to them, so that they may be answered by her heavenly voice. However, in the most recent years, the number of visitors had steeply declined, to the point where the five or six who had visited today would be considered busy.

The Undead Curse had brought great unease to the land, and many of the human who lived in Anor Londo had been exiled from the city, in fear that they may carry the Curse on them, or had been outright sent away to distant prisons, far away in isolated parts of the world. It also did not help the primary place of worship for Gwynevere had become the Grand Cathedral, now since Lord Gwyn had left. People likely still visited this one for the novelty of it, more maybe to make a pray in her direction, if they had not been able to gain audience with her, a task which had become much harder recently as she had become much more recluse.

Nonetheless, it was their duty to protect this sanctum from any of those who wished to defile it, and most importantly, cause any damage to the painting in the back.

The Painting Guardian did not know much about what it was she was guarding, a duty passed down from her own mother, all she knew that it was created by Ariamis, who had created most the paintings in the city as a whole, hundreds, if not thousands of words of part, each one holding sliver of magic in either the paint of the canvas itself to give it a more life-like quality to it. The painting behind her was truly gigantic, thousands of square feet, hung and framed in the back of the cathedral, visitors could look but never touch, lest they suffer the consequences, which meant a quick sword to the back of their neck.

The painting of the snowy landscape, the rope bridge and the rundown castle covered by forest was something that was always on her mind. Her family had been one of many to guard it, for so many generations, back when Lord Gwyn was at the height of his power, when the Four Knights stood at his side, and the dragons had been defeated only recently, yet she did not know what exactly were the properties of this one painting in particular that made it so special, potentially powerful, and the curiosity ate at her like a rabid dog.

One day, she made sure no one was looking, and she intended to quickly stroke it with a gloved hand.

No one ever saw her again.


	55. Grave Warden

**Grave Warden**

 _Mask of the wardens of the crypt. No notable effects. Designed only to block light._

 _The Wardens of the crypt watch over the slumbering dead, making sure they are not awoken. Be they king or peasant, wise of dull, rich or poor, the wardens treat them with the same care._

The traveler crawled through the dark tombs of the crypt, sneaking along the sides of the walls, a rapier in one hand, a small shield in the other, and a staff strapped to her belt. Suddenly, she leaped forward and stabbed the Hollow in the chest, knocking it to the ground, and delivering a swift kick to its head, caving its skull in as it grasped weakly at her ankles, the torch it had carried fallen to the ground and beginning to die, the small fire going out. She huffed underneath her mask and grabbed her staff, raising it above her head, and a bright orb of light appeared above her head, illuminating the entire room as though it was daylight.

Now being able to see where she was stepping, she continued on her way and went through the next passageway, only to be immediately bombarded with blasts of darkness and fireballs. Ducking behind a pillar, she peeked around to see her way blocked by giant metal walls and witches in the back, casting spells that they had flung at her. Grabbing her own staff, she prepared her own spell and rolled into the action.

Some time later, all the Undead were gone, leaving her, and she walked past where they once stood, entering the next room just as the light above her head gave out, leaving her in darkness.

"Human, do not produce light," came a voice from the dark, making her head jump a beat in her chest.

"Who said that?" she asked, looking around, weapons in both hands, ready for an attack.

For a moment, there was no answer, and in the shadows, it felt much longer than it should have. "You are now Undead," the voice said. "Curious, you are truly alive, something that has never been known down here, in the kingdom of the dead. Human, what brings you here, where you are alive?"

"I've heard rumors," she said, still trying to find the source of the voice, before finding a flight of stairs. She slowly made her way up them. "I heard that the way to escape death itself could be found down here, and since I have no desire to die, this felt like the best place to go. Descend into hell in order to find salvation."

"Death is not something that can be escaped," the voice called back. "Delayed, yes, but never beaten. I would assume that you are speaking of King Venrick, but nonetheless, he cannot give you the answers you seek."

She then reached flat ground. "I'm certain her can be persuaded." Raising her staff, she used Cast Light. With light in the room, she saw that she was surrounded by large men, wrapped in tattered robes, each one carrying a deadly-looking sickle.

Soon, another resident was added to the crypt.


	56. Lord's Blade

**Lord's Blade**

 _Mask of the Lord's Blade Ciaran, one of Gwyn's Four Knights._

 _The cyclops headpiece is common to all of the Lord's Blades, but Ciaran was determined to earn this soft porcelain mask as a unique decoration of honor. The mask is lined with ivory locks of hair._

 _These deadly women shift nimbly between layers of darkness, etching streaks of gold into the night air, planting visions of terror into the minds of their targets._

Ciaran sat cross-legged on the floor of the coliseum, to her back was the makeshift gravemarker she had constructed, using whatever rubble she could carry over to this spot, and a small bundle of flowers resting atop it. To her side was the silver knife, Dark Silver Tracer, and resting on her lap was the golden sword, Gold Tracer, shining brightly in the dim light of the clouded day. Sighing to herself, she grabbed the sword by the handle and raised it above her head, and traced a finger along the shining blade, running her coated thumb along the sharp edge, the sound of scrapping lightly filtering into the air. She then picked up the dagger and held them both in front of her, before crossing them over one another, before placing them back on the ground before her, and leaning forward, elbows on her knees, and her head in her hands.

Once, these had been tools of death, but that had been a very long time ago, and she now she had a difficult time recalling when was the last time she had used them. She had been ruthless in her duties, killing anyone who spoke ill of Lord Gwyn, leaving only cleanly killed corpses, leaving no trace she had even been there. People knew however, about who she was and what she did, but no one dared speak against her, in the sheer fear of what she could do to them. She had her own small squad of assassins, who carried out their orders on anyone without question, she was one of Lord Gwyn's Four Knights, and was one of the most respected and power people in all of Anor Londo, a political figure with mush sway in how things worked.

How had she come to this then? Where did it all go? Why was it she found herself having difficulty getting up in the morning, having no reason to do so, feeling no drive in her life anymore? Anor Londo was an abandoned city, no one left in it, Artorias was dead, consumed by the very Abyss he once fought, Ornstein was too honor-bound to even question the last orders given to him, and she doubted she could enjoy "retirement" as Gough had. Even though she had faith in Lord Gwyn, a part of her wished he had not gone to relight the First Flame, as it was the first step in her own fall into a sense of pointlessness, and uselessness.

She craved purpose, to know she had a duty that needed to be fulfilled, by her and her alone, and to go through this world without one was a fear that loomed over her, like a great shadow, waiting to consume her.

What good, after all, was a Lord's Blade, without a lord to serve?


	57. Chain

**Chain**

 _Chainmail armor of thin interlinking rings of steel. It is common throughout the human world since it can be easily produced it is not too heavy, and offers good defense._

 _Knights may favor flashy armor, but for the warriors on the battlefield, anything is fine as long as it keeps them alive._

The warrior stood his ground, feet planted firmly on the rocky path along the cliff, sword in one had and shield in the other. He took one step forward, and then another, each step taking him forward and faster than the previous one, taking him further towards his goal, but then there came the first attack, it was a Hollow, wearing the sparse remains of a guard's uniform, and a single rusty battle axe in its hands. The Hollow jumped at him, swinging its weapon down with tremendous force, enough to hack deep into his shoulder.

That was the first death.

Eventually, he killed that Hollow and went up the stairs that would lead him closer to the aqueduct, only to have a firebomb thrown at him, the fires exploding in his face, blinding him for a moment, enough to give the other Hollows time to run him through with their swords.

That was the fifth death.

He made it through however, later, cutting through them much later, having run out of Estus, surviving by the skin of his teeth, and was able to enter the aqueduct, his feet steeping into the cold and grimy water. As he slowly made his way up the passageway he managed to fail in noticing the giant rat behind him as it came up up and jumped onto his back, and bit through his neck.

This was the eighteenth death.

Over time, he slowly pushed himself further and further, making it one step forward before being killed in some sort of horrific death. The deaths piled up on him, each one taking their toll on his body and mind, but he strove to push forward despite all the hardships doing everything he could to not simply give up. Despite this however, it took him longer after each death to get moving from the bonfire, his sword seemed to grow heavier in his hand each time he tried to pick it up, and he found it harder just to keep moving.

He lost how many times he died, he had tried to keep track, but he had lost count at nearly a thousand, and that was around the time her got to the boar.

Eventually, he made his way to the church, and died to the gargoyle almost instantly, and after another hundred or so deaths, he managed to survive long enough to see visible signs of injury on it, and he began to feel good about himself, maybe he could actually do this. Then the second gargoyle appeared.

Later, he sat at the bonfire for a very long time, much longer than he had ever before, and for every moment he did not move, the harder he found it to do so.

He just never stood up again.


	58. Crystalline

**Crystalline**

 _Crystallized armor worn by a Hollowed knight, who was partially crystallized._

 _The power of the crystals grant high defense._

The knight entered the fog gate, the cool air hitting him as he did so, stepping through to the other side, and before him, stood the dragon, Seath the Scaleless. This was the first time he had ever seen a dragon, he had seen drakes yes, but as mighty beasts as they were they were nothing compared to one in front of his eyes. It was the largest creature he had ever seen, with pale skin, a long a slender neck ending in an eyeless and twisted head, with six, translucent, insect-like wings sprouting from it back, and what seemed to be three tails, or maybe tentacles, sprouting from a giant lump of crystal-like flesh that grew where its legs were supposed to be. This scaleless, mutant of a dragon, was perhaps the most terrifying, and beautiful thing he had ever seen, but he knew he still had to destroy it, to slay it, to kill it.

He charged forward, and Seath roared, a force that shook the entire room, reverberating off the thick clusters of crystals, shaking diamond dust into the air, reflecting the light into a show of prismatic rays. Swinging his sword, he sunk it deep into the dragon, chipping away small shards of crystal as he did so, but he was then hit with a powerful beam of magic, his entire body covered in what he breathed out, the entire of the room was covered in crystal spikes, and he was thrown backwards, the spikes impaling his body. He was left vulnerable to one more blast from the dragon's maw.

Eventually, he made his way back to to Seath's chambers, and attack again. He managed to somehow avoid most the blast's power, and stood back to pelt the dragon with arrows with a bow, but Seath was able to simply ignore them, and swat them aside like they were nothing before killing him again. The knight continued after each death, doing what he could to strike him down, but every time he was unable do any harm to Seath, and after awhile he began to notice that not only was he not hurting it, but any damage being done to its flesh was being reversed. Despite, he kept trying.

On one attempt, he slumped against the wall outside the fog, to rest for a moment, to relieve his heavy body. He blinked once, slow and sluggishly, and looking down at his chest her saw that specks of crystal had clung to his chest plate. One more blink, and more crystals appeared, forming small spikes. Everything felt watery, and confusing, and with every moment he took in the world around him, he found it harder to take it all in, despite the small space he inhabited.

Then, he never noticed anything ever again.


	59. Antiquated

**Antiquated**

 _Special magic crown bestowed upon Dusk, Princess of Oolacile, upon her birth. Its wearer is blessed by all manner of magic. This raises the power and effect of the wearer's magic, but damage suffered by magic also increases._

 _A dress from the ancient fallen land of Oolacile. Its ivory-colored silk features elaborate embroidery and is imbued with ancient magic power._

Princess Dusk sat alone in the forest, against a moss-covered tree, listening to the silence around her. That, honestly, was what scared her the most, the silence, the lack of noise, no birds chirping or insects buzzing, and not even the wind was blowing. The absolutely silence terrified her. Pushing herself to her feet, Dusk wiped the dirt and grass off the smooth silk of her dress and began to carefully walk through the forest, to look for sounds that would bring her comfort.

Snipping soon filled the air as she came across a group scarecrows, the tall, thin-limbs plant-creatures that tended to forest, keeping the trees trimmed and orderly with large shears, and plowing the earth and using pitchforks to watch over the small gardens scattered over the forest ground. She approached them small group, and they all turned to her, before giving a small bow in presence before returning to their work. Not too far off, she heard the grinding of stone as one of the stone guardians made their rounds around this section of the forest, stone armor with hints of moss beginning to grow, stone greataxe in its hand and towering over anything that could come near. As it came close to her, it too like the scarecrow, bowed to her, and continued on its duty around the forest.

She wondered how long they would continue with their tasks before the magic that powered them stopped?

Taking more steps, she began to walked further out of the forest, and closers to another sound, a sound that drowned out the clipping and the grinding, and even the heavy silence. Soon she was standing over a cliff edge, and looked down the rocky edge and into what was far below her. She did not see the ground, or grass, or water, or even more of the forest, instead she saw darkness, and it wasn't simply because it was an absence of light, instead it was as though the dark was a physical thing, something she could torch if she was able to reach down this fat. The most interesting and curious thing however was that this giant hole in the ground had not always been here, and had only show up recently.

The ground had fallen apart, collapsing into itself all happening so suddenly that no one knew what to make of it. That was was only the beginning however, the first thing to happen to Oolacile to showcase its downfall, the darkness permeating so thickly she could taste it in her mouth, the appearance of the Black Dragon Kalameet, and the invasion of the city from its deepest depths up.

She could still hear the screams coming from what remained of the city, even this far out. How was it she was the only one to survive?

Down below, she could hear noises coming from the Dark, something deep and rumbling, like a thunderstorm that was sleeping deep beneath underground. It put a heavy feeling on her entire body, and she found it difficult to stand close to this abyss for any period of time.

The rumbling only increased, and she was something erupt from down below, and the next moment she knew there was only dark.


	60. Northwarder

**Northwarder**

 _Hood of a Forossan Sage._

 _Forossans venerated the god of war, and sages who lead warriors into battle were called Northwarders._

 _Northwarders earned their title only after completing a great journey of great hardship, after which they would be worshiped as oracles for the gods._

The wind blew through the trees, kicking up snow as it did, thus limiting how much he could see through the thick forest, covered in white, and behind him, a Forossan knight approached, their footfalls crunching the thick snow with each step. The Northwarder turned to the knight, covered in thick furs and leathers, enough to keep the frigid cold out and keep them warm, as well as to offer protection against the sword and clubs of whoever meant the wearer harm.

"We should reach the slopes of valley by sunset," the Northwarder said, brushing the palm of his hand against his chin, removing the frost that had been building up on his beard. "From there it should be a day or two before we are able to make it back to Eleum Loyce."

"I hope so," the knight grunted. "The cold's been terribly bitter this fall, and with this level of snow it looks like winter is just going to be miserable from here on out." He huffed, adjusting the large sword strapped to his back, and looked out to the forest, trying to see between the trees. "The storm is not letting up, it's only getting worse, in a few hours we won't be able to see our damned hands in front of our eyes."

"Hmm." The Northwander deeply frowned. "We keep moving, but stay together, for the time being. Every step counts, and I would rather go for every available step than not. If it seems like its getting too bad, we stop and hunker down.

Suddenly there was a scream. The Northwander and the knight turned around to see their troupe being attacked by bandits, wearing thick pelts, wielding spears made of animal bones. The knight charged in, grabbing his weapon off his back, and charged forward, while the Northwander grabbed his think knife in one hand, and his staff in the other, before raising it and letting loose a Soul Arrow, which pelted one of the bandits dead center.

The battle was short, but fierce, and soon the bandits were all dealt with, killed, their blood staining the pure snow a deep red. The Northwarder looked around and to his men, seeing that while he had not lost anyone, they had each had suffered some sort of injury, and he was about to give the order to loot the corpses, to see if they could find anything of use, but a sight amongst the trees caught his eyes. It was one of the bandits, running away.

He raised his staff and fired off another Soul Spear, but the trees and snow detracted his aim and he hit nothing, and the bandit was gone.

Grumbling, her ordered for everyone to keep moving. There was no way of knowing if the escapee would come back with reinforcements, but he did not want to risk it.

The snow was beginning to fall much more heavily.


	61. Artorias

**Artorias**

 _Armor of Artorias the Abysswalker, one of Gwyn's four knights._

 _The death of this set's owner can be surmised from the corrosive Dark of the Abyss, and the musty azure-blue tassel, and the tattered cape, once a symbol of pride and glory, which has compromised their protective utility._

Artorias screamed as he jumped forward, swinging his sword down, digging it into the giant arm of the monster her fought, but it simply roared and swatted him back, causing him to crash right through the stones pillars littered the area. He rolled to a stop and tried to push himself to his feet, but the beast was soon on him, swinging down its head club, its shadow looming right over him. The knight raised his sword in both hands, trying to block the blow, but he collapsed beneath the strike, breaking through with a sickening crack and his arm cracked, but he was given no time as the monster went on another rampage and wildly struck him violently with a flurry of blows and threw him into the air before knocking him back down.

His vision beginning to darken, Artorias forced himself to his feet and looked down to his arm, broken and hanging uselessly as the sword fell from his grasp and to the ground. Reaching down he picked it up in his free hand, slinging it over her shoulder and stared the monster down, over a dozen beads of red staring him back through the abyss. It lunged again, but Artorias was able to leap back as its palms crushed the ground, and jumped into its face, slicing downward before rolling out of the way of its retaliation.

Its body then began to emit a dark light, and it raised its weapon, and it exploded in a blast of darkness and spread across the area, spreading and retreating back to their originator as quickly that in his state he was unable to avoid them, and crashed into his back, exploding upon contact and throwing him to the ground.

The beast then grabbed him, the teeth-like protrusions of its palm, gnawing at him armor and the giant paw squeezed at him, crushing like nothing. It raised him up off the ground and to it face, the hot breath almost going though his armor as it started him down. Darkness began to build around them as the monster let loose another roar, and more dark pouring from its maw, and soon the dark became to thick that it felt like a physical force being pressured against his own body from all side, like he was drowning at the bottom of the ocean, but more suffocating. It felt like the Dark was piercing his body from all sides, making its way into his very soul.

Artorias screamed once more, and he never stopped.


	62. Imported

**Imported**

 _Hemp hood that fully covers the face. Provides protection from the elements, and little more_

 _The cursed souls who wander the lands have a strange way of ending up here, as if drawn from afar by some force._

The Undead stumbled through the brush and bristles before collapsing into the muck of the earth, the mud seeping into their clothes, leaving them miserable. They coughed and grunted before pushing themselves back to their feet and began to move on, not wanting to stop for anything if they could help help in. They needed to get through this place, just out of here and to somewhere else, no matter where, just so long as it took them on the path forward. They heard noises around them, the sounds of animals and creatures, things that lurked in the tall grass, constantly moving around, always just out of eyesight, and the more they heard these creatures, the more unnerved they got.

Scanning the area, they saw the dark shapes in the distance, as well as the stone gazebo behind them, how they woke up there was still a fuzzy memory to them, and in front of them, coming from a crack in the cave wall, was a ray of light, the only thing that brought them comfort after their long travels. They then reached into the pockets, and found very little of use, a few coins, having long lost any value they could provide him, a dirty handkerchief, and a few scraps of moldy bread. That was it, not even a rusty dagger, or even a sizable rock to grab in their hand and swing around.

What they had was all they had, and what they had was nothing of any real value.

Keeping a careful eye on their surroundings, they moved forward, walking through the grass, parting it as they did so, the soft sounds of it rustling against their coat wafting into the air. When they came into the next clearing they briefly caught a sight running through the grass, a small creature of some sort, maybe something that they had been hearing, but they had been quick, vanishing before they could catch a proper look at them. With another step they heard a crunch underneath, and looking down they saw that they had stepped on a skull, brittle as were the rest of the bones of the skeleton near it.

The sight did not fill him with confidence of any sort.

Nonetheless, they moved forward through the cave until they heard the fierce rushing of water, and the sight of a waterfall soon came into view, spraying water onto a wooden rope bridge, and beyond that they could see a cottage. They were uncertain as to what to make of the structure, since it had been a long time since they had seen a building that looked not only intact as this, but also inhabited by someone sane, judging from the the soft lights coming from the windows. Ever since their exile, most of the houses they had come across were mostly abandoned, or at least filled with Hollows.

Soon they were at the door, and inside they could hear soft cackling, and reluctantly they pushed the door open.


	63. Chester

**Chester**

 _Black top hat worn by Marvelous Chest, a man of mystery lost in the past. The wearer of this top hat cracks a dubious, permanent grin. The Curse of Chester!_

 _This exquisite sewn aristocratic suit allows its wearer to move in silence, lending well to stealth. These gloves have to distinguishing features, but are extremely high quality, and trousers are decorated with silver trinkets of varying sizes, and have straps on the inner legs for carrying crossbow bolts._

His footsteps echoes back at him as he stepped along the wooden wharf, the midnight fog hanging heavy over his head as he walked beneath the street lamps. The lake made the air cool, and the sounds of the water lapping against the wood brought a calmness to him, and in the distance he could hear the roar of the waterfall of the river that ran through town. Reaching into the inner pocket of his coat he pulled out a silken embroidered handkerchief and coughed into it, a ragged cough and sickly one that shook his entire body down to the core, and pulling it away he could see specks of phlegm and blood covering the white cloth, and giving off a disgruntled groan his placed it back where he had drawn it from the place had had drawn it from.

"Have you gotten sick, constable?" a deep and gravely voice came from the shadows. "Not the best thing for a person to do, especially in these times."

The constable turned on his feet and looked to see a figure leaning against the boat-rental shack, a tall figure wearing a long coat and a top hat, arms folded against his chest. "Marvelous Chester I presume?" the constable sneered. "I heard that this was a place I could find filth like you, skulking around."

"Oh, already with the insults?" Chester said, mocking hurt in his voice. "Though, I suppose I should respect that you decided to get right to the part instead of mucking about with pointless conversation."

"I would rather keep to the point." The constable reached into his pocket and out of it he pulled an envelope. Holding it in front of he tossed it to the ground between him and Chester. "I'm certain that my own informative had spoken to you about what I need done."

Chester raised his head, and looked at the constable with a grinning white mask. He's heard stories about that mask, and he could tell they were true about how unnerving it was.

Slowly, Chester walked over to the envelope and opened it up, before carefully overlooking the contents of it, reading over the note on the inside and counting the paper bills.

The constable allowed his view to wander, to the night sky, the full moon above, the builds of towers of city he could see over the edge of the canyon, and the-

"Consider it a deal," Chester suddenly said, placing the package into his own jacket. "Your fellow officer will no longer be able to patrol the streets of our good city by week's end."

"Half now, half later," the constable said.

"Of course, officer," Chester said with a bow.

Without saying anything else, the constable turned on his heel and began to walk back down the pier, but soon heard a clicking noise from behind him, and before he could turn around, a bolt found itself lodged into the back of his head.

"Nothing personal, officer." Chester lowered his crossbow and walked up to the dead body. "But in an ironic twist, the man you've paid to kill him has paid done the same for you. Too bad, but you should have gotten to me first, but I wouldn't worry about your money going to waste, I won't kill him, not with only half the payment, but he won't be living a full life."

Chuckling, he reached into straps on his legs and pulled out a dagger with a rose crafted into the handle, and threw it into the body, the blade sticking deep into the flesh, a calling card of sort.

Going back to the rental shack he grabbed his bag of supplies and began to make his way back to the city, but did not notice the cloud of shadows appearing behind him.


	64. HunterLeather

**Hunter/Leather**

 _Broad-brimmed hat favored by the archer hero Pharis. Pharis was an accomplished archer, and though he was human, he ranker alongside Hawkeye Gough, one of the Four Knights of Lord Gwyn. His hat is universally popular among children._

 _The hunting goddess Evlana was no goddess at all, but rather a brave and highly skilled bow huntress. Long after her demise, the passing of lore transformed her into a deity._

Pharis could hear the loons sounding off in the distance, over the cliff side and towards the lake before the forest, as well as the rustling of the brush creatures as they settled into the soft dirt, waiting for their next prey to come and attack whatever or whoever came nearby them. They never attack her, or anyone else in the covenant, even though they did occasionally react to their general presence, but they had never made an aggressive move towards anyone who served under Alvina. She wondered why, pondering on what kind of powers their leader exactly had over the magical forest and how far these powers reached, but without speaking to her directly, she doubted she'd ever find out, and mostly she found that was something she didn't seem to mind.

There was then the sound of movement through the trees and dark, and she stood up from her place against the trees and looked in the direction of the gate that lead back to the parish, and she could see an armored figure approaching into the woods. She then saw the they had been attacked by two of her fellow covenant mates, the sorcerer and the knight, each going at the intruder. Those two always attacked together, and have always worked well as a team when it came to invasions, and from the corner of her eye, Pharis could also see several others of the covenant standing by, just along trees, observing the fight and waiting for their turn to join in should either of the pair fall. It wasn't an uncommon thing to happen, people coming to the forest being able to overpower members of the clan who attacked, but they nonetheless tried their best to expel them from the forest, to protect it.

Personally she had no desire in the well-being of the forest, nor did she doubt that anyone in the covenant did. She knew what was behind that door that laid deep within the forest, a field of old and broken sword marking where would-be graverobbers fells, all surrounding the oldest grave in the forest. The few that had managed to make it past them never succeeded in gaining whatever treasure Alvina wished to be guarded there, since there was one more protector that always hid until it was needed. Pharis herself had never seen this guardian before, but from the tales she heard amongst the other clan members, it was certainly a powerful beast to fear.

Pharis did not care for what Alvina wished to protect, only for what she was willing to give in exchange for her services as a guardian as the forest. Every invader she killed was another reward in her pocket, a handsome payment for a job well done, and each death ranked them up within the covenant's rank. She herself, while not the highest, was still of an respectable rank, and she did plan on reaching the higher ranks, hopefully to boot out the snide man Shiva and his shadow of a man.

She pulled her bow back with a fresh arrow, and fired.


	65. Witch

**Witch**

 _Cloak of the rouge witch Beatrice._

 _Almost all magic users that employ a wand studied at Dragon School, but Beatrice is one of the few exceptions. She braved the Abyss but did not live to tell of her ordeal._

Beatrice crashed onto the rocky ground, her body smashing into a wall and knocking the breath out of her lungs, shaking her whole being. She tried to swim upwards, but the currents were almost too strong, and she was herself turned upside-down, unable to find where she was as she tumbled in the raging waters. Suddenly, her head broke the surface, and she tried to swim to anyway, hoping to find some sort of landmass, but a giant wave came up and tossed her into the air, and the next thing she knew she had landed hard and solid rock. Getting onto her hands and knees and coughed up water until it felt like her lungs were on fire, until she looked up and was horrified at what it was she saw.

New Londo was being flooded. They'd done it, the Sealers had blown a hole in the cave roof, just below the massive lake above them. Water was still pouring down, and waves crashed down on the city, taking down towers and buildings and castles, wiping them all out, burying them underneath millions of gallons of water. She couldn't even begin to think just how many people were dying right now. The only reason she had survived was because she was at the bonfire tower, the highest point in the city, but she could see even from here that it was gone.

Beatrice wanted to cry, to scream, to just be angry, she had come here to end the darkness that had grown here, to put a stop to the Darkwraiths and to the Four Kings, but she had failed. She had gone to fight them, but she was not able to, and she almost died, and had to use a homeward bone to escape.

But now, there was nothing left, all washed away by water.

That was when the sword went through her middle, before it was pulled out. Screaming, she fell forward and onto the ground, rolling onto her side to see a Darkwraith standing above her. It was soaked to the bone from what she could see, and it was tired, standing ragged and clearly injured. Thick red blood coming from the cracks in its armor, it did not fair as well as she did. Weakly raising its sword it made the motion to strike down at her, but Beatrice was quicker, and cast a Soul Arrow at it, knocking it to its back., and before it could get up she cast a Soul Spear, taking its head off.

Weakly gripping her catalyst, Beatrice pressed her free hand to her stomach, to try and keep the bleeding down, but she could feel the pouring heavily through her wounds, soaking her robes. Standing up, she staggered forward, wanting to find the gateway out, to find help.


	66. Cleric

**Cleric**

 _Distinctive hat worn only by Way of White priests in Thorolund. It is simply meant to show their position within the hierarchy. It holes almost no meaning in the land of Lordran._

 _Though plain to the eye, its hardy fabric repels rain and keeps the body warm. Those dissatisfied with church teachings must test their faith by going on a spiritual journey. Such is the ritual or self-purification of the Way of White._

The cleric took a deep breath, gripping her talisman tightly in her hand as she took in the warmth of the bonfire to warmth her body and soul. Behind the rock wall, she could hear the roaring waterfall, the noise bringing her comfort in this place that would lead her to the deepest part of the earth, to where no living person had ever gone to and returned from before. She continued to pray, and did so for a long time, before she stood up and made her way to the exit, climbing down the stone ladder and through the narrow doorway into the open, careful to avoid stepping on the pressure plate that wold shoot out the long and sharp spikes from the strange statue next to her.

She took a look around the canyon, she took in the formations around her, the interconnecting caves all around, the tricky bridges, and looking over the edge she could barely make out the ground far below through the darkness. While she wasn't entirely too certain, she had though she could see things moving in the dark. With mace in hand, she carefully began to move forward, her desired location dead set in her mind, where she wanted to head toward for this journey.

It had been many months since she had left Thorolund, and the Church of the Way of White to come here, for her own sort of pilgrimage. She was not Undead, and the trek here had been filled with perils and dangers, but she was able to survive any and all dangers against her, proving to herself that she had the strength to make it deep down into the Catacombs, skirting right into the kingdom of the Gravelord Nito. It was Kindling she was after, the treasure sought out after by the Way of White, and while usually it was the Undead members of the Church who were sent out to get, she felt this was some of a test for her than a trial for the sake of the Way of White.

A skeleton dropped down from above and charged at her, but she was able to bash her mace across its skull, causing it to fall to pieces. It wasn't long however before the pieces began to move of their own accord, trying to reassemble back together, but before it could do that, she raised her talisman and prayed, unleashing a Force onto the creature, knocking it back and over the edge, and down into the dark chasm below.

With one skeleton out of her way, she continued, moving along the narrow ridges, descended deep into the Catacombs.


	67. White PriestPriestess

**White Priest/Priestess**

 _Traditional robes of Drangleic clerics._

 _The clerics of Drangleic were not viewed with particular reverence, their status remained throughout the ages, and their positions were only preserved as a not to tradition, always at arms length from the royal family, as if their existence was little more than formality. It is customary for cleric to wear different garbs depending on their sex, but the reason for this practice is unknown._

The Priestess carefully approached the shrine, the dragons, or drakes maybe they were called, filling the air as they flew around, screeching loudly, high above the clouds that gently waft far below where she stood, at the end of the rickety bridge. The sight of this, along with the tower castle before her was truly a marvel to beyond, so separate from everything she had seen on her way to this place, and a large part of her was still having a difficult time believing that she had finally managed to get here. She had heard of this place, whispers heard around the castle by servants and shadows that people pretended didn't exist as they did shady work that no one wished to acknowledge, most of those rumors possibly having started by the magicians who worked closest to Lord Aldia, even more so as it seemed his relationship with King Vendrick only became more strained.

One of the rumors that had a tight grip on her curiosity, a vice that she could not pry off, was something that there was something at the top of the castle, something that could possibly be what they were looking for in their research in the nature of the soul. From what she heard, many things regarding what Aldia did were very possibly horrific, if that could be used to describe it, and that those who pried into his business were not seen again, but her own desire to know drove her here, despite her best judgment.

She was not a well-respected person within the castle, as were many of the other figures who dealt with spiritual matters, despite her own ranking in these, admittedly, small numbers. Despite this lack of respect from any given member of the army, even up to the king himself, who only saw them as something to keep around for tradition's sake, she was a strong believer in gods and their powers; from Nehma, to Caitha, to Quella and even Nahr Alma, she had strong faith in their powers and their presence in this world, despite any actual evidence to the contrary, and in her research to learn as much as she could about the legends and myths surrounding them, she became entranced with them, and their scriptures of their relation with souls in general.

This thing that had been constructed, whatever it might be, could it possibly be what would lead her to making contact with the gods


	68. Lucatiel

**Lucatiel**

 _Mask attached to a ceremonial hat. Normally hats and masks are separate, but these two have been adjoined. An elite order of knights in a far land used this hat in a ceremonial capacity. Masterfully crafted, but of little practical use on the battlefield._

 _Vest worn my knights on travel. Only those who have distinguished themselves on the battlefield were admitted into the elite ranks of Mirrha's official order of knights._

 _It is common to hear of a peasant's dream of striving for knighthood as an escape from hardship, but who would ever think it possible._

"What do you mean you can't find him?" Lucatiel asked, trying to hold onto her own emotions.

The general stood his ground. "I'm sorry Lieutenant," he said, trying to be gentle, something he had never been too good with. "After the last battle we lost all sight of Aslatiel altogether, we are still looking for him in hopes that he will be found, he's not the only to have gone missing, we will send out scouts for him, but..."

"But don't get my hopes up that he's alive," Lucatiel said, her voice sounding hollowed. "He could very well be dead."

"That is correct, Lieutenant. Your brother is one of the finest men I've known during my service in The Order, and the idea of him being killed is something I have trouble fathoming, but nonetheless he is just one man, and no matter of skill can make up for that."

Lucatiel said nothing, still trying to process the news.

"You are dismissed for now," the general said. "If we find any word of your brother, you will be the first to know." He then saluted, Lucatiel responded in like, and left his office.

She wandered around the fortress, aimlessly, walking down overly familiar paths and corridors until she found herself on a roof overlooking the training yards. Looking down she saw soldiers in training, some just boys and girls, and she began to think back to her own time down there, she still had a scar across her arm from her first week, at age fourteen. It had been a long and difficult road to reach this point in her military career, sometimes unfairly so, but it was either this or sling mud in some farm and wait to be a causality in the crossfire of war. Aslatiel, her only family left to her, made everything so much more bearable.

"Lieutenant Lucatiel," came a voice from behind her, and turning she saw a sergeant that she had seen in Aslatiel's troop, though she could not recall his name. "There you are, I wanted to speak with you privately for a moment."

Lucatiel simply turned back to the training grounds. "I'm sorry, but I wish to be alone for the time be-"

"It's about your brother," he said, and Lucatiel spun on he heels.

"What? Tell me now!"

The soldier spoke, and told her about how he had seen Aslatiel slain in battle, only for his body to dissolve into ash.

"That would make him Undead," she said, no longer able to hear the soldier. Being Undead in Mirrah was not a good thing, they are gathered up and locked away into prisons underground. Was her brother really Undead? Did he run away to escape persecution, but then why didn't he tell her, did he not trust her enough with this?

Months went by and Aslatiel had been pronounced dead, and awarded the highest honor a soldier could be awarded, dieing in the name of the state, his medal left with her to place in his grave. She went on with her life, trying to piece together what little she could, but was never able to find anything that brought her peace.

One day, however, she woke up and in the mirror she saw a discoloration on her face.


	69. Imperious

**Imperious**

 _Armor worn by once-proud knights._

 _Relics of a party who long ago attempted to conquer the Undead Crypt. For this act of conceit they will never rest in peace, and instead serve as crypt guardians._

The captain stood at the top of the stairs, overlooking the bonfire that his soldiers rested at, recovering in both body and mind, the journey here had been a difficult one, and they had lost a small number of their own to reach this far into the earth's depths, but they had come here with purpose, with determination, and they would never falter until they had conquered this place.

"Listen up men!" he cried out, prompting them to look up to him from their spots around the entry hall. "We've come to this place, where the dead are meant to rest in eternal slumber and darkness when their times comes, but not us, we did not come hear to be embraced by death, but to defeat it. Legends have it that King Vendrick, who once ruled this cursed land for centuries untold vanished from the world and into these crypts, taking the secrets to life and death with him, and that is why we are here, to take those secrets from him, wherever he may be, and to rid ourselves of this curse forever!" Gripping the two massive shields, giant slabs of metal, and slammed them to the ground, creating a loud echo though the hall, and deep into the crypt behind him. "We will not fear death, instead we will make death fear us!"

His soldiers cried out and cheered, thrusting their own weapons into the air, clattering them together, rousing enough noise to wake the denizens of the crypt from slumber.

Turning to face the door behind him, the captain strode in confidently, taking out a mindless Hollow carrying a torch as he did, crushing it between his shields, turning it into paste with no effort on his part. Behind him, he could hear his men following him, each one ready to do what they needed to in order to gain whatever power lay deep within the tomb.

Hours later, the captain crawled up an expansive set of stairs, the sounds of deathly bells ringing in the darkness, and behind him he could hear the clattering of armor as the Undead knights left him alone, left to succumb to his wounds. He laid there, his body broken and alone, the last survivor.

He rolled over onto his back and stared up, unable to see the ceiling in the blackness and began to cough up blood, and pressed a hand against the gaping wound in his side, feeling the blood seep through his armor. The room was becoming blacker, and he wasn't too certain that was because of the natural darkness.

"You are a fool," a voice said, deep and calm, and a figure stepped into his vision. "One cannot defeat death, only await it." It was than man, the pale-skinned guardian of this place. "You had been warned, but you chose to ignore everything I have said about what would happen to you, and now you have paid a dear price for your arrogance." The captain tried to retort, to insult the man back, he he found it difficult to even keep his dies out. "You have tried to tarnish this place, so we will not grant you the release of death, human."

The pale-skinned man reached down, and all the captain from then on was dark.


	70. Sunlight Maggot

**Sunlight Maggot**

 _A loathsome parasite that inhabits Lost Izalith. It is completely immobile, yet still lives._

 _When worn on the head, it emanates blinding light, which is why it is known as a Sunlight Maggot._

Alone in the dark, Soliare sat still, staring at the ground beneath him, stirring in his own thoughts.

"Why am I here?" he asked aloud, his voice the only think he could hear in the darkness. "I have given up everything I had to come to Lordran, to find my own sun, but still I cannot find it. From incandescent Anor Londo, to the depths of the Gravelord's Tomb, even the reaches and knowledge of the Duke's Archives could provide me with nothing I needed. Now, here I sit, finding nothing in the remains of Lost Izalith, only insane demons, thirsty for souls of the weak, but where do I go from here?"

Placing a hand on his knee, he pushed himself to his legs, and grabbed his helmet off his head before letting it hang to his side. "There must be something, somewhere to give me the answers I've been so desperate to find, but I have no clues as to what," he said, his voice growing deeper, and more rasped, and then dropped to his knees. "Please, Lord Gwyn, if you can indeed hear me, from wherever you are, please guide me somehow, I have done nothing but good with my life since I set out on this pilgrimage, aiding those who needed a light in the dark to help guide them through the the darkness they faced in their own travels. It is unreasonable to expect someone to help guide me? Please, it is unreasonable to ask for something in return?" He looked up, and saw nothing in the shadows, and waited for a long time, hoping to see something, but he never did.

His fingers loosened, and his helmet dropped to the ground, his head turning down. "But, why...?" he said, barely above a whisper. "Why cannot I have anything for everything I've done... Was it really all for nothing?"

He sunk himself into his palms and let out an anguished yell that echoed through the entire tunnel.

A cracking noise then caught his ear, and looking up he saw a piece of the wall fall away, and a blinding light show through, and something crawled out. A large insect, ugly with teeth and eyes, and many legs crawled out of the hole clicking as it did so, and above its body was a bright glowing ball of light.

Solaire looks at it as it slowly crawls to him, transfixed on what he sees. "So, bright," he said, his voice distant and far off. "It is possible, that you are my sign, that you are my sun?"

The creature hissed as Solaire reached forward for it.


	71. Engraved Gauntlets

**Engraved Gauntlets**

 _Stone gauntlets engraved with odd writing. Said to bring good fourtune to their wearer._

 _The wealthy merchant Fiorenza searched for these rare and precious gauntlets his entire life, but was not the one to find them._

Fiorenza sat at his large ornate desk, with one hand his flicked between his fingers, a piece of gold from an ancient city far to the east, and in the other he held a map, one charting the lay of those lands, where people had not set up trade yet. For most, it seemed like suicide, something for lawless vagabonds to go when because they were either stupid or were running from something they did no want to face, but for him, he saw it as a business expansion. Lost kingdom filled with treasures and relics of ages past, things that no one else was brave enough to try and acquire, and the witless Undead who went there likely did not view any of it with its actual works, just worthless garbage. He, on the other hand, knew how these things works, he was the the most wealthy man in all of Volgen, he had spent in entire life building this own empire out this.

He was looking forward to this, but there was one aspect he desired more than anything else; in one of the crates he had come across there were journals telling of one of the small kingdoms, putting into great detail of what it was and how it worked, and he found himself kindred to it, as it was one built on trade and monetization. Tseldora, it was called, and it's primary resource was glowing crystals that came from a mine beneath the city, he appreciated how detailed the journals were, as it would certainly make his take over of it much more easy.

What caught his eye, however, more than anything, was a detailed portrait of the Duke of Tseldora, or more precisely, what he was wearing. Strapped around his arms were the Engraved Gauntlets.

For Fiorenza, luck was a thing he believed in very strongly, more so than any king or god, and if legends were true, they were the ultimate symbol of luck, and he had spent his entire life trying to find them, and he would do everything he could to get them.

Months later, he laid in the sand, unable to feel anything from the waist down. Groaning weakly, he clutched tightly at the wrapped package in his arms, trying to protect it from the world. Trying to look around him, he saw the remains of his caravan, being dragged away by monstrous spiders, or turned to statues, but it would all be worth it if he could-

"Bastard's still alive, huh?" said a rough and threatening voice.

"I'll admit I'm impressed, I would have thought he would have died with the rest," said another voice, a calm and deep one.

Fiorenza looked up and saw two figures standing above him, one wearing standard, plain armor, and one in a steel mask.

Without saying a word, the plain-armored man reached down and pulled the package out of his pitiful grasp as he tried to weakly hold onto it, and unwrapping it he revealed a set of stone gauntlets.

He couldn't make any protests, make any deals to try and get them back as the masked man brought his axe down.


	72. Drakekeeper

**Drakekeeper**

 _Giant onyx armor._

 _Something dark indeed eats away at the Drakekeeper's, eternal guardians of the shrine._

The winds howled fiercely and the creature before him shifted where it laid, its eyes wide open, staring into the nothing, its massive body towering over him. Ever since he had brought it up here, to this castle in the sky, it had only said a single thing to him, and that single line was enough to convince him as to what he next course of action would be. Turning around, Alida left the platform at the back of the Dragon Shrine and made his way down the temple to meet the new guards that had been created. He walked slowly, taking in the sights and noises of the drakes that flew around the skies, roaring and screeching, blowing jets of fire as they wove though the clouds and skies, until he reached the very bottom of the shrine, where it met the bridge that lead to the nesting areas.

Here, he had meet numerous, towering knights, dressed in dark armor, wielding weapons fit for their size and strength. Looking down on them, he could see them shake somewhat where they stood, an involuntary spasm that rattled their entire forms for the briefest of instants, before the managed to hold themselves together, standing as still as a statue. Personally, these were not his best works, crude constructs, and the subjects used for them deserved betters than to be such things, but they were what he needed, and he had not the time to be choosy about what he left behind. They were to be the eternal guards of this place, to protect the creation at top, as well as his greatest failure.

Looking beyond the knights, he lowered his gaze the ground, far below, at his feet, and to the small child that stood between so many beings that made her look so small.

"You understand why you have been brought here, do you not?"

The girl did not look at him, instead choosing to avert her gaze from him instead, and murmured something, but he was not able to hear her.

"Speak up," he said, harshly.

"Y-Yes, Lord Aldia," the child said, turning her head up to look at him, half her face covered in a thick cloth hat. "I w-was not able to meet the goal you set for me, s-so I must remain here until I am told that I can leave."

"That is correct," Aldia said back. "You failed to fulfill your original purpose, and now as a result I have needed to find other means, which may force me to go beyond your abilities. Despite your inadequacy, I have no desire for you to fall into the hands of those who do not understand what I've been after, nor my brother, should he ever decide to return my keep." He then turned to the armored knights. "Make certain she does not leave," he said, before walking past the child and out of the temple.


	73. Royal Helm

**Royal Helm**

 _Helm of Vamos, skeleton blacksmith of the Catacombs. Partially made of gold, and confers high resistance overall._

 _The helm is believed to belong to an ancient royal line, but only Vamos would know for sure, and he shall never speak again._

Clang after clang could be heard in the pitch black darkness, down a deep pit in the ground, through a small hole in a layer of bricks. Inside the hole was a tomb, filled with stone coffins lining the walls, bones littering the ground, the remains of downed skeletons, the rest of them either still resting or out there in the dark. One resident however, was wide awake, dwelt in the corner of the room, sitting by the bright light of a small pool of lava, pool in a coffin. The resident in question sat over it, their face hovering over the intense heat. If they had skin, they would have practically burned off, but all that was left was dark, hard bone.

Vamos, blacksmith of the gods, held the metal over the lava, heating it up and catching fire, the metal itself burning hot white as he turned it over. He then withdrew it and placed it on the anvil in front of him, holding it in his free hand, and brought down his weight hammer down on it. With each strike, the sounds echoed through the chamber, and a bright spark lit up the room, but only for a brief moment, and for each strike the metal shaped itself, becoming flatter and sharper with each strike, until it had become the desired shape he needed it to be. Raising it up, he turned in his seat to face his right side and to another open coffin, this one filled with cold water, and dipped the metal, along with his hand, into the water. It hissed loudly as steam exploded from the bubbling surface, holding it there until it stopped.

When he was certain that the metal had cooled down, he withdrew it from the water and held up up to his face in the dark. For anyone else, it would be difficult to see anything in this light, but he had no eyes in the first place, not anymore at the least. Turning it over in his hand, Vamos placed the finished sword down on the ground, leaning against the wall, before turning back to more unprocessed materials, but one thing caught his eye, a golden horned helmet.

Looking it over, he wondered just how long he had been here, before coming to the realization that didn't matter to him; being dead was the best thing to ever happen to him, and and it allowed him to as much time to perfect his craft as he needed.

Tossing it aside, he went back to his work.


	74. Prisoner

**Prisoner**

 _Rags worn by imprisoned Hollows._

 _Judging by its looks and virtues, this really is no more than a tattered scrap of cloth. It still carries the stench of a Hollow._

The Hollow looked at the burning fire, the soft crackles sounding off into the utter darkness, a faint source of light, but not the only one; at varying angles, at varying depths, they could see other fires off in the distance, small torches created by the desperate. Currently the Hollow was alone in its room, if it could be called that, with walls and a floor made of half-rotted woods, with wide gaps that could have been called doors or windows, either way, it it was alone, like it wanted. Standing up it walked to the corner of its shelter and wiped its hand against a large grimy shard of glass, and looked at its reflection, trying to figure out what it was looking at.

An thin corpse looked back at them, rotted, strains of hair hanging limply off their head, clothes reduced to bare tatters hanging loosely off their emaciated frame, teeth missing from the mouth and milky white eyes. There was nothing about the creature they saw that even closely resembled the person they had once been, though they could not say they had been able to remember who they had once been in the first place. They cannot even remember what the sunlight looked like, or what its warmth felt like on their skin, which had long since gone cold and clammy, and all they knew was that they needed to leave, to get out, to escape to the surface.

Stumbling, the Hollow walked back to the bonfire and took an oil-soaked torched to the flame, lighting it up, and slowly made its way through the walkways, haphazardly built, and up the tower, as tall as they could, passing by other Hollows, most more far gone than it was, and several of those giant skinless dogs, unharmed. They only seemed to go after fresher meat.

Eventually it made it to the top, the highest point of this rundown scaffold, where no other point of flame could be seen to be above them, and it stepped on the edge of the floor. Across from them on the edges of the darkness, they could see a stone ledge, part of the cliff, though they could see nothing beyond that, only a cave, but the fact there was something there was enough for it. For the moment, hope was the only thing it had for itself.

Placing the torch on the ground and picked up a long plank of wood, grunting weakly as it did, and slid it across the platform, straining to prevent it from falling into the darkness below. Eventually, it managed to place it atop the ledge, creating a bridge that would possibly lead to freedom.

As it reached the halfway point on the bridge, it was already too late to do anything about the cracking noises it heard.


	75. Knight

**Knight**

 _Armor of a lower-rank knight. Despite the thin metal used, the grooved texture gives it added protection._

 _Knights have long trusted this armor for its excellent functionality._

The knight walked through the night, through the field, shield in one hand and sword in the other, ready to strike at anything that came out to attack her. Outside the easily cut down plant demons, she did not find anything too difficult, nothing that really opposed her was a challenge to her, to her utter disappointment. That's why she was here now, going through the valley just below the forest and towards the large lake at the bottom, from what she heard there was a place deep in the woods where strong warriors gathered to fight endlessly, but those battles were locked behind a large stone door, one she couldn't get past, no matter how hard she struck it with her sword. She also heard that there was a back way into the forest, though a ladder near the waterfall in the canyon, and she desperately wanted to get in there, so she found herself here now, looking for the back door.

She could hear the waterfall from here, the roar of water in the distance, and she could see the moonlight reflecting off the lake's surface from the distance, and with that in her sight she made her way down there, but something else caught her eye. Scattered around the forest, she saw large creatures, gleaming in the night light, made of crystal, lumbering around aimlessly, and she walked towards them shield raised up. One of them turned around and faced her, or she assumed, before it charged at her, raising one arm at her, before swinging it down, and even though she blocked it with her shield, the the blow was still enough to almost knock her to her feet. Taking a step back, she held her sword up before swinging it down on the creature, the sharp blade only taking a chip out of its crystal hide.

Looking around, she noticed that the other creatures were converging on her, surrounding her from all angles, and charged forward, breaking through the line and heading towards the lake, leaving them behind her though she could hear them rushing after her. She wasn't running away, that was for cowards, she intended to kill them all, crush them into powder, but she needed to find a good spot to do so, to keep them separated, so she could pick them off more easily, and with skin like that she would need to seek every advantage she could get.

Turning around, right at the water's edge, and faced the creatures, looking them over, trying to figure out what she was going to do and how she was going to going to go about it.

There was then an explosion of water behind her, and rain poured down on her, the pattering of her armor as the spray hit her armor, and there was a loud hissing noise, and before she could turn around she was struck from behind.


	76. Dingy

**Dingy**

 _Worn by the Fire Keeper at Firelink Shrine._

 _It is thought to have once been the white robe of a maiden, but smoke and ashes from bonfires darkened it over the years._

She could hear ringing in her ear as she regained consciousness, bleary eyes and muddy senses made it difficult to tell where was but she could see that it was dark. There was then a sudden sickness and she rolled over to her side and coughed, spitting out thick and sticky red, so warm, onto the dirt, large chunks of clots falling to the ground as she chocked on her own blood, and the horrible realization came over her as her memories flooded back as she used her sleeve to wipe the blood off her face, smearing it against the thick white fabric.

Screaming a gargled noise, she weakly tried to push herself up to her feet, but the moment she put weight on either legs she was filled with pain and toppled back down, her whole body flashing in agony, and looking down at her skirt was soaked through will blood, dried blood, where her lower legs were. She cried out, hoping that someone would hear her screams, come and help her out of wherever she was, but no one came to help her, but she still received an answer.

"Looks like she's awake now," said a gruff voice from nearby. Straining her arms, she managed to push herself up by her arms and look down toward a source of light, where she could see several people had gathered.

"I was hoping we'd have finished before that heretic woke up," said another voice. "Let her rot in here for the rest of eternity for all I care."

"She is a Fire Keeper," came the first voice. She crawled forward, pulling her entire weight on her weakened arms, trying to reach out to them. "She not only spoke out against Lord Gwyn, but against anyone and everyone who puts their faith into him, the things she said, those blasphemous lies, cannot go unpunished, but because she is a Fire Keeper, we cannot put her to death. This should be good enough for her, and she will maintain her duty for as long as she needs to."

She reached forward, her arms straining themselves to try and reach them, but her fingers ended up curling against a cold bar of iron.

"May the good lord guide you," the first man said, spitting it out like venom, before it walked away along with the others.

Her other hand grasped another bar, and she managed to pull herself up and call out to the people, she couldn't say much, but even if they could hear her, she doubted they would come back even if they could hear her. Letting out a pained wail, she slumped against the bars of her new prison.


	77. Elite Knight

**Elite Knight**

 _Armor of a nameless knight, perhaps an elite knight of Astora. Although he was loath to give up on his Undead mission, he perished at the Undead Asylum, and went Hollow._

 _Made of bradden steel. Provides sturdy defense, making it an old-time favorite of elite knights. Bradden steel is used widely in Dragnelic. This fine alloy is made from ores minded in the southern kingdom._

Oscar heaved the body over his shoulder and looked down through the hole at his feet, and down below him he could see the person in the cell bellow, one of the larger cells in the asylum. He had been there the day they had brought this one in, the two large armored knights carrying the unmoving body by their arms, dragging them along the dark hallways before unceremoniously tossing them into the cell, locking the gate behind them. The keys to any given cell were kept on the guards, meaning that if the guard left, they took the key with them, and out of the asylum, but after a little incident with the local prison guard, Oscar was able to pick the keys off the crushed body, leaving him free to open up any given cell he wished.

For the most part, none of the Undead in here seemed to be very helpful, they seemed to have been here to long that they have long since lost any sort of semblance to any humanity they once had, and all that was left was a mindless, shambling thing incapable of any sort of though or reason, simple soul-starved hunger.

He had come here from Astora to fulfill the old prophecy, or to at least set it in motion, to see if he could change the course of history. Nothing in the tales said anything about the Chosen Undead, just that they would need to go to Lordran and ring the Bell of Awakening and bring light to the world. If that legends talked about him, or someone else, he didn't know, but at the very least he would try and set the wheels in motion.

The corpse was tossed down, the key tired securely around its waist, and from their huddled up position in the corner the prisoner looked up to them, Oscar returned the gaze for a brief moment before retreating back along the roof and ran along the crumbling towers. He wanted to make certain that escape from the asylum was possible, that the path to the bird who rest at the end had no obstacles, and the biggest obstacle in anyone's way was the guard to prison.

There was then a loud roar as one of the largest towers burst open, the force of the blast sending Oscar rolling into a pile of rubble, and as he stumbled to his feet he could the guard of the prison standing before him, tower over him, snarling with its grotesque face, clutching the giant hammer in its claws. Raising the weapon above its head, it swung down, aiming at Oscar, who raised his shield to block the strike, but the end result was him flying halfway across the roof., crashing into a wall.

The world was a blur for a moment as he regained his sense and his weapons, but before he could fully do so, he felt a sudden crushing weight down on him, sending him through the roof.

When he woke up, his entire body felt weak, unable to move, and all he could do was stare hole in the ceiling, and the daylight streaming through.


	78. Benhart

**Benhart**

 _An armor of unknown origin. Belonged to Benhart of Jugo._

 _Apparently Benhart found this while wandering land to land, but its origins are unknown. He wore it all the time, he adored it so, leaving a slight odor._

Benhart of Jugo rested against the wall of the large alcove, the fire burning before him, cooking the small stew in his pot, giving off the pleasant smell of potatoes cooking with a thick broth with rabbit meat. It was night out, the moonlight streaming in through the gaping hole of the temple's dilapidated roof, reflecting onto the large pool of water in the center of the floor, and he was hungry more than anything. He shivered slightly, still not used to the chilly air, despite the thick fur wrapped around his shoulders, maybe it was bear, or moose, or something, he didn't know, and honestly, with the exception of his sword, he had nothing left on his person that he had taken with him when he left home years ago, and currently he was working on the next piece of his collection.

The helmet in his hand was polished already, it was easy to wipe the grit and dirt off of it, its original owner must have left it here, in the corner of the temple rather recently. The fire he was using had already been built, and not too far away from where he found the helmet was a dried streak of blood against the wall, along with dried provisions scattered across the ground. While he wasn't not able to figure out how long these things had been like this, he was willing to guess that it was long enough that the original owner would not be returning for them any time soon. So after finding out what he could take with him, Benhart began to cook his dinner, delicious rabbit and potato stew.

He raised the helm and placed it on his head, slipping it easily over his graying hair, before setting it against his scalp. It was heavier than the original cloth turban he had worn, but it would be a great source of protection, and it honestly made him wish he had a mirror to at least see if it looked nice with the rest of his armor, all of which scrapped together from wherever he could find them.

Satisfied with his new armor, Benhard reached over and grabbed his sword, the beautiful Bluemoon Greatsword, and admired the shining blue blade. It had been in his family for generations, ever since it had been found in a lost tomb, and ever since then every member of his family had tried to tease out its power, the create powerful arcs of moonlight, just like in the legends, but all had failed to unleash anything. Perhaps he could do that, unlock the powers it held within its blade in Drangleic?

Legends said that only the brave or crazy would go there willingly due to the dangers that lurked deep that forsaken kingdom, and Benhart always thought he had trouble telling one apart from the other.


	79. Warlock Mask

**Warlock Mask**

 _Strange mask worn by Aldia warlocks._

 _Warlocks in Aldia gave rise to wicked things, and even cast forbidden rituals upon themselves. No one knows if they were born mad, or if their one misdeeds drove them over the edge._

Merciless Roenna looked over the cliff and into the dark below, the sounds of the waterfall trying to drown out all other noises, but failed to do so. In one hand she held her weapon, a scythe said to be created from the bones of demons, and in the other was a Cracked Red Eye Orb, a broken red stone with a mad eye on the inside, constantly searching for targets to have blood spilled from. She stood there, on the edge, for a long time, trying to drown out the noises as best as she could, but no matter what she did, where she was, or who she killed, she could hear the sounds of death around her. It wasn't the pained cries of those who were she could hear, but actual death, as though it was a heavy presence that hung above her in the air, and while it was like a thick fog across Drangleic, she could feel it on her entire body, trying to crush her before its immense weight here, in the Huntsman's Copse. Leaving this place would have been the right thing to do, the safe and sane thing, to try and leave this damned kingdom and try and make a life for herself anywhere else in the world.

It wasn't like this however, and she needed to stay, wanted to stay even, because she couldn't help it, but she needed to remain here, since this was perhaps the only place she could find that wretched spirit. She had encountered it several times, across the kingdom, but not once was she ever able to replicate the incidents, with the exception of here. For whatever reason, the spirit would reside in this place for long periods of time before it appeared. No matter what, she needed to kill this spirit.

Her grip tightened around the Cracked Orb. The simpletons in the Brotherhood of Blood only saw these as tools to attempt and satiate their bloodlust, none of them understood what that meant because they simply couldn't be bothered to think, they never even considered what they could gain from this.

But she could, Aldia had taught her well, and she wanted nothing more than to cleanse the world of his forlorn failures, and she needed to not enter another world, but the thin space between them.

The Cracked Orb pulsed in her hand, the sickening heat pulsing through her hand like a beating heart, and she began to feel herself fade away from the world.


	80. Eastern

**Eastern**

 _A distinctive armor made in an Eastern land._

 _Exquisitely crafted, this armor offers excellent defense, particularity versus slash attacks, which are one of the main threats in battles in the East._

Wading through the sludge, Shiva scanned the expansive swamp of Blighttown, a hell hole if he had ever seen anything like it, and simply being here was enough to make him grateful for the pouch filled with moss on his side. In the back of his head he could still hear Alvina's orders, the deep and constant growl behind every word she said, and he committed it to memory, with the full intention of upholding her laws.

The Forest Hunters were a viscous and violent group, attacking and killing anyone who entered the Darkroot Garden without relent. Whoever gets the kill gets the prize, that was the rule, or at least one of them, the other was to sweat absolute loyalty to clan, and to the members within it, and of course to Alvina above all, if you act against them then your life is forfeit. Anyone who betrayed the clan was a dead man walking and it was his duty to ensure that justice was carried out.

Standing in the shade of a rundown shack, he could see the person he was after, and he began to rush forward, grabbing his sword in both hands. The target, however, noticed him, and drew her sword out and jumped out of the way of his on strike.

"So, this is where you've been hiding, you filthy rat," Shiva said, bring his sword back up. "To hide away in this cesspit, you must be desperate."

"I didn't think anyone would come down here," she said, carefully strafing around him. "No one comes to Blighttown unless they have nowhere else to go. Aren't you even curious as why I did what I did?"

Shiva laughed. "Why would I care? You attacked a member of the clan, as far as we're concerned, you are nothing more than a dead body waiting to happen."

"I'm not going to die," she hissed. "To hell with the clan, to hell with Alvina, and to hell with you!"

"Do you really put no value on your life? Shiva asked, turning his sword in his hands. "I suppose it doesn't matter either, but at least try and make it look like you're not suicidal."

"I've always hated you Shiva, I've always hated you the most," she said, her voice a deep growl. "I am going to enjoy hill you!" Raising her sword, she let out a battle cry...

Which then turned into a gasp as a sword went through her gut.

She cried again, this time in pain, as the sword was drawn out, and she fell into the mud, her blood pouring out into the muck. Turning her head she looked up with bleary eyes, and she could barely make out the shadowy shape standing above her.

"You forgot about him, didn't you?" Shiva said smugly, stepping close to her. "He's always in the shadows, so I don't blame you." He kicked her, hard, and rolled her onto her back. "Goodbye."

He then dropped the sword down right at her.


	81. Retainer's Robe

**Retainer's Robe**

 _Robe of the retainers in the cathedral city._

 _Long ago, the retainers attended to the priestesses, but with them hone, the retainers were left to wander frigid Eleum Loyce without purpose._

Calling the ice and snowstorms bitter would be an understatement, and did not begin to describe how harsh the storms were being at this time, the thick flurries and blowing winds that ran through the city. It was difficult to see much through the snow, barely able to make out the rough outlines of nearby buildings, anything beyond that nothing more than a blur of pure white. Eleum Loyce, once a paradise in the ice-capped north-west, was now a frozen hell with no chance of returning to its former glory, and it had been so for a very long time.

The Retainer hugged himself tightly, as he sat next to the bonfire, only embers burning through the ashes, providing only a small amount of warmth, providing only minimal protection against the cold and wind at it filtered the open doorways and into the large room. He looked down at himself and saw the excuse for clothes he had worn now, the once warm and elegant robes reduced to what was now tatters, the result of wandering around the abandoned city, and fighting off Hollowed soldiers and the rare spawned demons from the true hell far below the cathedral.

He regrets not leaving, when the Ivory King had ordered the evacuation of the city, he should have gone with the rest of the populace when they left the city gates for the nearest city, far to the south instead of staying here out of a sense of loyalty that was no longer required. There was no one left to guard or watch over, and even entrance to the cathedral as barred off, as Avaa's order were to kill all who approached. Now he was trapped here, with no way to escape, as he could never make the trip by himself, let alone in his sorry state, he would find himself buried beneath the snow in less than a weak, without ever even getting close to any sort of civilization.

He was Hollowing, he knew that. Every day was another struggle to even exist, and each sunrise became less bearable than the last, and it was only a matter of time before he became a just another soulless, mindless creature wandering the lonely streets of Eleum Loyce.

The Retainer damned it all, the weather, the city itself, the priestesses he once swore to protect, Alsanna and even the Ivory King and the knights who joined him to burn in hell for all eternity. This was all their fault, how he ended up in this pathetic, wretched state.


	82. Peasant

**Peasant**

 _Attire commonly worn by peasants._

 _Normally work wear, more fitting for farming than fighting._

"I can't believe this place anymore," said one of the miners, sitting around the campfire. "I came here because I was promised a good pay to send to my family just outside the kingdom, but all that man is doing is working us to the bone!"

Another miner grumbled and spat onto the ground. "It was great at first, we found brightstone by the bucket full, we got good paid, this was a good place to live once, but the duke, oh..." He solemnly shook his head. "I'm not going to lie and say he was a good and caring man. He was bastard if I'd ever seen one, but he knew what he was doing, and the town was better for it."

"What happened then?" asked the third, and final miner, eating watery soup from a bowl. "If you asked me, this place is a pile of shit, and it's only getting more dangerous."

"You mean those spiders in the caves?" the first miner said, removing his hat and wiping the swat from his brow. "I wish I knew where those things came from, because they're only getting worst, they're appearing in every nook and cranny more than ever and they're more aggressive than ever. Sure, as long as he have a torch on us, we're safe because they seem like they're afraid of fire, but who knows long long that will last. I swear if they don't do anything about them soon we'll all be spider food."

The second miner raised a hand and pointed behind him gesturing to the canyon behind them. "Doesn't help that the Duke down there starts to get furious when he hears you attack one things. He has some sort of obsession with them, it's strange. Ever since they found that cave, he's been going off the deep end."

"Cave?" the third miner asked. "What cave?"

"There's a cave in the Duke's own manor, just before his study, we came across it one day, and I am not lying, there is a dead dragon there. Just a giant stone corpse."

"No way," the third mine laughed, shaking his head. "There's no way a dragon would be down there. Aren't they myths anyway? They're not eve real!"

"No, no, I've seen it myself, just hanging up on the ceiling, covered in webs. I think those are the spiders nest. But the strange thing is that when we discovered it, the Duke just stared at it for a long time."

"It's a dead dragon, of course you're going to stare," said the first miner, his voice gruff.

"The way he stared at it was different than us, it was like he was trying to stare it in the soul, and that maybe the soul was trying to stare back at him."


	83. Alva

**Alva**

 _Armor worn by Alva the Wayfarer. Light but offers very high defense._

 _Alva crossed man a lands in search of a cure for Saint Serreta's sickness, but failed and relinquished his knighthood._

 _Alva was once wracked with guilt and remourse, but rediscovered his purpose in life with the aid of the witch who once plotted against him._

Torch burning brightly in his hand, Alva the Wayfarer strode forward, using his weapon to cut away the thick vines and branches that blocked his way through the dark forest. Pausing briefly he looked up and saw thin rays of light piercing through the thick canopy far above his head and stared in amazement for a time, wondering just how long it had been day, or if at any point night had come and gone. Without a direct sight on the sun or stars, it made navigating the jungle a difficult task without any sort of landmark he could see in the distance, and he had feared that would had been turned around at some pointed, forced to run around in circles as he tried to find his ultimate destination. He continued on, nonetheless, swinging down and cutting through a thick brush, and as he pulled his sword out, light dimly streamed from the other side.

He pushed through and found himself in a clearly the canopy opening up above, allowing the entire filled to be lit up with sunlight. There were flowers everywhere, bright whites mixed with pinks and blues, with a pool of water in the center with large boulders scattered around around, he could also see birds and butterflies fluttering about, and even a deer eating grass on the other side. In the months he had been searching, this one piece of land had been the most peaceful and serene things he seen ever since he left home on his quest. If the tales he had heard from other travelers were true, then this place would be what he was looking for.

"Still trying, dear Sir Alva?" came a coy voice.

Alva looked around and saw, sitting on one of the large stones, legs crossed, was the terrible witch, Zullie the Deceiver, this time wearing the black view that hung loosely over her face, showing only a part of her mouth and sharp chin.

Instead of answering her, Alva marched forward, going through the field of flowers, his eyes searching for the one he wanted, the one he had come here this far for.

"How long has it been since you left home, my dear?" Zullie said, now kneeling before him, her hands cupped around a flower, he thumbs gently stroking the soft petals. "Saint Serreta would certainly love a place like this, even I must admit to its beauty."

Alva continued forward, still searching for his prize, and found himself standing near the pool, and there was was, sitting right were the water met the land, bright red flowers with yellow stems. Reaching out he plucked the flowers from the ground and placed them into the pouch on his side, and made his way out.

"She'll never thank you, you understand?" Zullie said, standing near the entrance where he came through. "She never will because she's dead."

Alva stopped in his tracks.

"Does this surprise you?" she asked, a mirth smirk on her lips. "She was terribly ill when you left, and you've been gone so very long, so her dying in your absence should not be a difficult thing to accept. By the time you reached Lindelt, they had already buried her."

The knight stared at her for a time, and Zullie wondered if he trying to decide if she was telling the truth or lying, but then he continued forward, walking right past her.


	84. Gold-Hemmed Black

**Gold-Hemmed Black**

 _Worn by the witch Quelana of Izaith, mother of pyromancy and Daughter of Chaos._

 _She wore this gold-hemmed black hood before even the Age of Fire, and it offers strong resistance versus fire, poison and other perils._

Quelana sat in the mud, her back against the stone pillar that reached into the sky, but still lay below the city above. Around her the residents of the swamp wandered about, the mosquitoes, buzzing about, looking for a source of blood, the giants lumbering through the sludge, their stench overpowering the dirty air, and the mutant insects, forever a reminder of what happened. Her eyes were trained on the hill not too far where she sat, a giant silken mound with tree roots poking through, and the single open entrance at the top. There was nothing to stop her from going up there, to go through there and confront her sisters, but she was too terrified to do so.

She ran, to her shame, and never turned back, and she knew that Quelaag would never forgive her, and with her sister's ill temper she doubted it would simply be that. Over the years she heard the citizens of Blighttown talk about the Fair Lady, the pale woman who was kind and sweet to all those who entered her domain, and she had also heard of their deformities, of how below the waists they were monsters, giant spiders that spouted fire and spewed hot lava. Despite this, the citizens worshiped them, and had been so grateful that they even gave their bodies to birth the chaos worms.

They were even more grateful when the Fair Lady removed the blight puss from their bodies.

Quelana knew how that kind of magic worked, and it horrified her. Quelaan, the sweet younger sister she was, had always been far too kind for her own good, and the thought of whatever state she was in right now was a despairing thought for Quelaag.

How was the rest of her family? Her mother and the twins she knew were gone, all swallowed up by the Chaos as it erupted to life, unleashing hell upon Izalith, burning its citizens and reducing them into mutated monstrosities. What of the rest of them, the two sisters who she tried to stay behind, or even her baby brother, who ran back to find the sister he had always been closest too? Those were things she never found out, but she could if she need, but again that would require going to see Quelaag, who had always been the kind of person to stay on top of things, so the fate of her siblings was something she would have know.

Quelaag would try and kill her on sight, she knows this.

She knows that she can never make her broken family whole again, but she could try and stitch back together what she could.

But she didn't.


	85. Hollow-Royal Soldier

**Hollow/Royal Soldier**

 _Royal Drangelic soldier armor._

 _Equipment crafted by the royal blacksmith, crafted with quality materials. Highly degraded and close to falling apart._

The soldier pushed himself to his feet, pushing the fallen rubble off of his body as he did so, and used his hand to hold himself steady against the wall as he did so. A loud ringing was the only thing he could hear in his head, dulling all his senses, almost like he was partially removed from the world itself, and around him he could feel as though his armor was gripped tightly around his body, pressing against his chest and making it difficult to breath. He placed a hand against his chest plate and glided a hand along the deep dent in the front, the result of a powerful blow.

Sounds began to return, at first sounding watery and far off, but as he stood still, focusing on the noises, they became much more clear; the sounds of battle, screams and yells, fires burning and explosions going through thick stone structures, and loud hollow sounding roars. He reached down searched through the dirt and rubble, until her had gripped his sword and shield, both heavily damaged and worn from long use and constant battles. The world around him was still blurry, but he turned his head and he knew it well enough for the absolute clarity to come rushing back.

The giant stood there, swinging around its giant club, more like a carved boulder, taking out man after man, who would only poke and slice at its legs with their sword and spears. Around there were also several of the Ironclads, who were also making their attack on the giants, their thick and heavy iron plated armor allowed them to withstand the hits of the giants better than their Royal Soldier counterparts, and gave them enough time to swing their own heavy solid iron hammers, bringing it down to the giant's knees, causing it to stagger and leave it open for the other soldiers to gang up on it. Despite that tactic the battle still proved to be a losing one for the soldiers, as they were still easily beaten back. Across the courtyard he could see other battles, wide-scale ones, giant and soldiers, each one trying to spill the blood of the other in this war.

Above him the sky was filled with smoke, the results of fires that had spread over the fortress, and in the distance he could a tower collapse, the entire structure going down in a cloud of dust and debris. It had been so long since he had started this fight, since his father, and his father before him had begun this war, that it was more or less the only thing he knew. What else was there to know?

Raising his weapon, he let out a war cry and charged forward.


	86. Mad Warrior

**Mad Warrior**

 _Mask from an unknown foreign land._

 _King Vendrick called upon powers from beyond his borders in an attempt to stave off the curse. Perhaps this belonged to one of his guests._

Chancellor Wellager walked into the halls of Castle Drangleic, two of the Guard's top swordsman at his side. Their feet echoes against the stone slab floor, accompanying the sounds of the loud chatter amongst the gatherer soldiers in the room, each one socializing with their own, avoiding others, as was the way of mercenaries from what Wellager had experienced in the past. From what he could see there were at least a dozen different groups here, he could tell from the cast array of armor they wore and the weapons they wielded, that he was dealing with people all ends of the kingdom as well as outside it as well, from all directions. There was hope that between all these soldiers there were at least a few good ones to keep the peace in the kingdom.

"Attention soldiers!" he called out, and one by one each of the warriors ceased in their conversations and turned their attention to Wellager. "You have all been gathered at here at the request of King Vendrick, as you may all know. You are all sellswords, and the king will pay handsomely for your services, and unless you've been hiding under rocks for the last few years you are all well aware of a curse that has been ravaging the lands, one that keep the dead from dying until it robs them of their minds and souls." He gestured his head back to the men behind him. "If you wish to serve your allegiances to the kingdom, in exchange for a momentary compensation of course, then follow these two. They will lead you to to our generals where your position will be discussed.

The two guards left the room, and all the soldiers filed in after them, with the exception of one group who stayed behind in the back. Fully armored, with a mask resembling a skull, with thick cords extending off the back, he wasn't too sure if those were their own hair or if it was part of the mask, as well as slim swords at their waists. He'd seen swords like those before, usually wielded by warriors from the east, so he made the assumption they were from that area as well.

"How much payment are we walking about?" one said to him, the leader he assumed, his voice like gravel.

"Your pay will depend on your services," Wellager answered simply, looking over the man and his trope. He was no stranger to dangerous-looking folk this, but he was certain that he would be able to hold himself fine.

"And our services would depends on our payment," he said.

"Then we will just have to see how well you perform then, shall we?"

The man simply gave a brief laugh. "I'm certain you will be more than satisfied with our collective skills."

They then walked by either side of him and through the doors, and Wellager watched them leave.


	87. Raime

**Raime**

 _Armor worn by the Fume Knight._

 _The rebel Raime, after his defeat at the hands of Velstadt, came to Brume Tower in search of greater strength._

 _When he found it, it came not from a regal father figure like before, but from a newfound mother, who gave him true purpose._

The ground shifted under Raime's feet as he stepped into the light with a soft crunch. He looked around and saw several massive towers in front of him, one reaching, extending thousands of feet into the sky, surrounded from by volcanic fields as far as he could see, erupting burst of lava onto cooled black and gray rock, and reaching his hand out he saw small specks fall from the sky and onto his fingers, ash. Giving the area another look around he saw that everything was covered in ash and soot, layering like thick snow. Clutching his longsword in his hand he continued on his way, walking up the staircase and to the top most floor, where he met a strange sight.

A statue blocked his way, sitting between him and a massive chain that was linked to the central tower, large enough for him to walk over it. The statue was strange, it glowed, like a fire was swelling deep within its core, and it had a multitude of arms, each one wrapping around its body securely, and a burning flame where its head was supposed to he, but the thing that made him the most uneasy was the fact that it was whispering. They were hard to hear, exactly what it was that was being said, but it sounded glad that he was here, happy to see him. Taking it a step forward is suddenly flared to life, the hear radiating though his armor, and he raised his sword to defend himself.

Black flame erupted from the ground, and Raime jumped back to avoid the blasts and seemingly out of its reach, but when flames died monetarily he charged forward and swung his sword down on it, but his sword merely bounced off the idol's surface, and Raime was forced to roll out of the way of another flurry of fire. He then quickly stepped onto the chain, running up it, just as the links behind him caught fire, but he was out of its reach.

Sparing the idol a moment's look, he turned back to the main tower, covered in ash.

Was this really the seat of power of the Old Iron King, who was fabled to have control over iron itself? King Vendrick had once spoken of having an interest in trying to find his main processing plant, the Iron Tower, but outside those whims said in passing, he was unaware of any actual plans to try and find it. Funny, how Raime would simply stumble upon this place by chance, after leaving Vendrick's only recently, exploring the lava-drenched remains of one of the Old Iron King's castles.

Behind him he could hear the whispers still, but he moved on, up and along the chain.

There was something here, he could feel it, something powerful, and he intended to discover it.


	88. Bandit-Brigand

**Bandit/Brigand**

 _Armor won by the brigands who raid mountain hamlets and attack travelers. In addition to protecting against the blazing sun, dust and sand, it helps them tell friend from foe in the heat of battle. The addition of metal over a base of cloth and leather offers good mobility and defense._

 _Mountains surround Drangleic on three sides. Most travelers who try and cross them end up hapless prey to the countless brigands lurking there._

The horses trailed up the narrow canyon, filed in a single line. On top of them their riders remains silent, constantly watching the tops of the cliffs in the case of any ambush, certain that territory out this far from the nearest village was likely to has some sort of roaming vagabond, wandering around to prey upon unsuspecting travelers making their way through the wilderness. They were simply merchants, making their way from one kingdom to the other, and in the large wagons that trailed in the middle of the line were numerous valuables of great worth were in their trade with other kingdoms.

At the front and end of the trail were two knights, highly skilled and highly trained bodyguards who had been with them for many years, and had done a very good job at insuring the safety of the caravan and its cargo.

There was then a scream, and the caravan halted. From around a corner a woman ran out, badly limping, before tripping over her long, torn cloak, and cried for help. After her, a man appeared, a crazed grin and an axe in his hand, wearing an array of metal decorated leather gear, reaching down he grabbed the woman by the hair and held his weapon to her throat.

"Stop right there!" cried the bodyguard in the front, dismounting from his horse, and with his sword drawn he rushed at the man, who let the woman drop before retreating back. When he reached the woman, he gently reached down to pick up her shivering form, while keeping his eye on the crazed man.

"This is between me and her!" he screamed loudly, thrashing his weapon about. "The woman's life mine, and I have the right to end it!"

The bodyguard stands before the woman and points his sword at him, ready to defend her-

At the back of the caravan, a horse whinnied, and as everyone turned around the second bodyguard is hanging off his saddle, an arrow in his neck.

Before the bodyguard can react to this there is a sharp pain in his throat and he can no longer breath. Falling to the ground he clutches the dagger in his throat, the hot blood pouring over his gloves, and he can hear the merchant cry out in panic. Turning his eyes up he sees the woman, now with a wicked grin on her face, remove the cloak from her body, showing off her own garments, an outfit that looked the same as the man's own. The man in question then stepped up from behind the woman and handed her a sword before making his way to the screaming merchants.

Before he died, the woman gave one glare to him before delivering a quick kick to the knife.


	89. Archdrake

**Archdrake**

 _Robes of the Archdrake sect of Lindelt._

 _Little is known about the Archdrake sect and its ancient rituals, and those who dare to indulge their curiosity have been known to simply vanish._

 _The Archdraek sect are the keepers of Lindelt's histories, including the only record of its foundation, a tome they have good reason to keep hidden._

The songs could be heard throughout the entire cave, coming from multiple sources without sounding as though they were. Above them the massive tree branches spanned the sky, separating the the sky and the rest of the cave, creating an interwoven layer of roots, allowing only sunlight to enter, and below was the cool and dark water, shallow in some places, but reaching into the abyss in others. Scattered around the surface were fireflies, dancing just above the waters, and shapes could be seen moving just underneath it, settling themselves underneath the glowing lights, and in the distance they could see plant life, glowing a deep blue, painting the entire area in a beautiful light.

"Could this possibly be the place?" asked one of the Archdrake Clerics.

"It is possible," said the other, looking as far as they could see from their cliff side view, while behind them the rest of their trope sat around the bonfire, waiting to get started on the journey. "Legends had it that our forefathers came to this land many centuries ago in search of the lost city, but their arrogance destroyed the city itself, wiping an entire culture out in a blink of an eye." The Archdrake raised their shield and gazed upon the iron depiction of the slumbering dragon it bore. "The original sect was made from the survivors of that tragedy, how few they were, and managed to find refuge in Lindelt, where they carried on what knowledge they had of that land, and now it is in our hands."

The first Archdrake looked on, taking note of all the ruined structures her could. "Do you think we will find it, the Sanctum City Shulva?"

"I believe so," the second one answered, confidently. "Shulva was located deep beneath the surface of the world, and we are currently on the path to the Undead Crypt, which nestles itself in the bowls the planet, certainly we will find clues there as to where Shulva is." They turned around and faced back to their trope. "We escaped the severity of Lindelt's laws and justice, and now it is time that make our own future, but to do that we must learn from the mistakes of our forefather's past."

"We have risked so much in coming here," the first Archdrake said, their voice far off. "Left all that we had in order to free ourselves, I would just hate to see if it all for nothing should we fail in our search."

"We are strong," the second said. "We are many. As long as we stand as one, nothing in this shrine, Undead of not, will be able to stand in our path, and will we survive whatever trials we come across."


	90. Havel

**Havel**

 _Armor worn by Havel the Rock's warriors. Carved from solid rock, its tremendous weight is matched only by the defense it provides. Havel's warriors never flinched nor retreated from battle. Those unfortunate enough to face them were inevitably beaten to a pulp._

 _The origin of the name Havel is not clear. Some say it was the warrior who wore the armor, but others say it was the name of the great kingdom ruined in a barbaric war._

The room was dark, nearly pitch black without any adequate light sources, and a heavy sound could be heard from above, coming down stairs. Footsteps, each one heavy, the sounds of stone grinding against itself along with the rattling of chains accomplished each one as they descended into the darkened room. The figure, standing tall and large with heavy and thick armor, moved through the room with purpose, going straight through the the multiple pillars and to the single object at the opposite end of the room, a wooden chest. When he stood before it he reached into his pack and pulled out a weapon, a simple wooden club, thick and heavy wood, sturdy, and totally ordinary without anything special to it, as the naked eye could see.

This club was probably the most dangerous weapon in all of Anor Londo, and should he be caught with it, he had no doubt that he would be sent to death, at best. Despite this, however, he knew that this was something he would need for the future, with how the city was being ruled, and how certain beasts were allowed to roam free, given entitlements when they should have been given executions. The city was rotting from the inside, and despite his allegiances, he would do what he would need to if the times forced him to act.

Bishop Havel the Rock, would turn against Lord Gwyn and join Velka in her rebellion should push come to shove.

With his other hand he pulled out a small metal medallion and threw it at the chest, and with a soft glow of light it opened, showing the lid lined with human finger bones and a massive tongue lazily lolling inside, and he gently placed the club on it, just as the lid slowly closed itself. A trap, in case anyone tried to come in here and raid his secrets, one that had been very difficult to acquire and sneak in without anyone noticing.

With his task to hide the unassuming weapon done, Havel reached around and gripped his remaining equipment, a massive slab of stone wrapped in chains for a shield, and the tooth of an Everlasting Dragon, appropriately named Dragon Tooth, which he easily swung around as a club that would crush anyone or anything in his path beneath its immense weight.

The club now locked away, Havel stepped away from the mimic and up the stairs, thoughts of the possible rebellion that would come in the future.


	91. Saint

**Saint**

 _Hood worn by miracle-casting clerics. Grants slight increase to spell use. Belonged to Licia of Lindelt._

 _Lindelt is founded upon stringent commandments. It's inhabitants often travel to distant lands for ascetic training, but more than a few of these trainees liberate themselves from Lindelt's teachings in the process._

 _While it's true Licia dedicated herself to miracles, it's rare for anyone to pass through life without trouble. Even cleric aren't always who they seem._

It was an odd site to see populated settlements outside any given kingdom and the smaller cities that surrounded them, usually the smaller towns had either been abandoned, their populace having fled to a city, or to have been ripped apart, by either monsters, Undead, or bandits and pillagers. Despite this it wasn't too uncommon to see small shambles of ruined towns to have an assortment of wanders taking refuge, usually as a traveling making their way through or as a merchant who serviced those passerby. This one seemed to still have civilians in it, farmers and townspeople still trying to make their way in this cruel, cruel world.

These were the kind of people who put so much trust and faith in gods to get them through the harsh trials of the days.

"Are you a saint?" pleaded a desperate peasant. "Have you come to bring the power of god to us?"

Licia smiled softly, gently taking their hand in her own. "Of course I am. I have come here to spread the word and faith of the gods, and their everlasting love."

It wasn't even an half-hour later when she had found herself standing in the center of the town, in the middle of a large crowd, the dozen or so citizens of the town. She spoke the gospel, of the gods and their love, and how they should love them in return, but how a monetary compensation would greatly benefit her and the church she represented, and soon she found a bag at her feet filled with souls, most likely almost all of what they had in the entire village. As Licia went along in her travels, she began to notice how much rarer it was to come across money used as currency, things like gold and silver becoming less valuable while souls increased in theirs. At this point she already had a small fortune on her.

Later in the night, as she sat in the finest bed of the inn, having finished ameal better than any of the villagers had in months, she counted the souls she collected today, seeing that there were only a few thousand added to her own collection.

All the souls she had however, were worthless compared to her own treasure, the most valuable thing she had.

A scroll, and old one at that, so old that no one knew where it originated from exactly, and she had heard religious scholars argue in circles for hours about some long forgotten princess of sunlight, or something like that. It was beyond value in the Lindelt Monastary.

It belonged to her now.


	92. Heide

**Heide**

 _Armor worn by Heide Knights._

 _Whether Heide refers to a kingdom or was just a name for the land is no clear, for no records date back far enough to tell._

 _All that is known is that the Way of Blue has its origins in Heide, and that Heide was later subsumed by the sea._

The knight sat there, sitting against the stone wall, unmoving as it had for so long, so many days having passed since it last twitched a muscle, or perhaps it had only been minutes. It wasn't too certain anymore.

Using its one good eye, it looked through the slot in its helmet and gazed upon the city, Heide's Tower of Flame, the name christened upon it when the fire atop the tower came to life. Looking at the city proved to be a difficult thing in itself with how the city looked to it at any given moment, everything was like water, constantly changing and never still for a moment. They saw Heide in different states though its history, when it was founded, its early days, the height of its power, its decline and its destruction. They saw every moment before and after, and in-between. The passage of time rippled before them, and they saw countless periods of history, all at once and constantly changing with every moment. People endlessly walked by them, running, fleeing, fighting, bartering, loving, so many things before they simply vanished after a brief moment of their existence. They were so alone.

They were afraid to move, to get up and stand, in fear that they would become stuck in a time zone, or perhaps fall into the abyssal ocean below them when the stone walkway eroded away with the millenniums, and then were would they be after that? They didn't know, and they did not wish to find out.

Their breath was heavy, they could hear it outside their own body, everywhere around them, why couldn't the feel the air leave and enter their body? Did they even have a body anymore, or where they nothing more than a shell of metal left, clasping a weapon from a long-forgotten age?

Something struck them, sending a shock through the body they may or may not have had anymore. The image before them was a blur, but solid enough to see, and it attacked again. Panic overtook it and it began to seek out the blur, to make it stop, it swung its weapon, but was struck again, and again.

It died.

It was brought back again.

Why was it in this hell?


	93. Drakeblood

**Drakeblood**

 _Black armor of the Drakeblood Knights, who came from a land long forgotten._

 _The Drakeblood Knights, who worshiped the blood of dragons, were led by Sir Yorgh in a siege of the Eternal Sanctum, but sunk into the Sanctum when the slumbering dragon awoke._

 _The red cloth wrapped around their black armor represents the sacred blood of dragons._

The puddle stirred as Sir Yorgh stepped through the shallow waters of the plaza, and towards his goal. Behind him, from the inside of the temple, and around the city itself, he could hear cries and screams, clashing and crumbling, the signs of the siege going according to plan. Shulva was falling around him, the citizens would be slain, the temples pillaged, and by the end of the day they would be victorious.

He looked down at this hand and to the treasure that this had all been for, what they had been sent here, down to the bowls of the earth for, a crown, golden and coral-like with a deep purple gem fitted in the front. He had taken it from the Sunken King when he slayed him before the great mural, taking it from his body, blood still staining the metal. King Vendrick wanted this crown, for whatever reason that may have been, but in all honesty it wasn't a concern to him, it was just another piece of metal, but what he was here for was what Vendrick promised him.

Before him, slept the dragon, its steady breaths filling the air, the body moving with each one. Its skin was grayish-green and almost like rock, and as he placed his hand against its hide, it felt cool through the armor, but the breath was hot. The Sunken King had called the dragon Sinh, the Slumbering Dragon, the god of this city, their whole faith and civilizations based around it. To see it before him, undisturbed after gods knew how many thousands of years of sleep, took his breath away.

Time to spill its blood.

Gripping hold of the beast, Yorgh climbed on top of the dragon and stood between its wings. He held his spear above his head, massive and long with a large stone-carved tip, and pierced downward with one mighty thrust, going right through the stone hide.

The dragon then suddenly bucked and Yorgh was thrown to the ground, the spear lost from the grip as a terrible roar filled the air. As he stood up he saw Sinh standing on its hind legs, letting loose a stream of flame into the air. It spun around to meet him, and he could see the end of his spear sticking through his chest, thick nauseous liquid and steam pouring from the wound. Sinh let out another roar, and the wound exploded as its mouth flared up, and the mouth erupted with fire.

Yorgh did not even feel his death, it happened all too suddenly as he was reduced to a smoldering body.

The entire underground shook as Sinh awoke, and as poison filled the cave systems, filling every nook and cranny, tainting the rock and earth for miles away.

The entire city was Shulva was wiped out in Sinh's anger, all except one.


	94. Hollow Skin

**Hollow Skin**

 _A hood imitating the head of a Hollow. Provides curse resistance, and makes it easier to detect messages from other worlds._

 _Finely crafted to perfectly imitate the head of a Hollow, only without the abhorrent stench. Whoever created this was surely deeply respectful of those lost to Hollowing._

Eygil was careful in how she handled the knife, softly carving into the soft rubbery material, creating the small cracks and lines that the face would have. It was a strange hobby of hers, one that made others look at her in odd ways when they learned of her morbid curiosity with the dead, as her entire family had one been taken by the Undead long before she came into the services of the Old Iron King. It was even more odd when one considered the king's own actions towards the Undead, locking them away in the Huntsman's Copse, hunting them down for sport, before finally locking them away in the coliseum and force them to fight for his own entertainment, as well as for his own guests, all hailing from distant lands beyond the mountains.

Such events were were some of the more... distasteful things that the king hosted or took part in. In recent years, as his power grew and his reach extended beyond the horizon, and with the recent completion of the Iron Tower he would be able to mine and process a nearly infinite amount of iron ore. She had heard many of his plans, to build and expand, to create towers that would dwarf the Iron Tower and pierce the sky, for his kingdom to reach beyond the oceans and to distant continents.

Already she had seen Sir Alonne somewhat apprehensive of these traits.

She carved out an eye, rounding out the socket to appear empty as it could be, even if someone wore the mask.

Hollows were an interesting thing, she had always thought, and had often wondered who they once were, and what lives they had lead. Were they men, women, or even children? Were they once lowly farmers digging around in the dirt, or even lords, once surrounded by fine food and art and other such niceties? Just how long had some of them been like this even, were there Hollows who had been around since long before her birth?

Would she be Hollow one day? What about the Old Iron King? He was a might and powerful man, frighteningly so, but did that mean that he was protected and immune from the curse? She was highly doubtful of that, because in the end he was just a man, and a man could die. Anyone who could die was capable of undeath.

Placing the tools down, she admired her work, a very convincing replica of a Hollow's face, a visage of the inevitable future of all men, no matter how great or small.

Was there really a way she could reverse something like this, and bring back life?


	95. Singer's Dress

**Singer's Dress**

 _Dress worn by a far-gone muse. Offers almost no physical defense, but is blessed with high magical resistance to magic._

 _These enchanting singers were given song by the Great Dead One, and have little concept of self. They live only to sing, and will continue singing until they can do so no longer._

The man cried out as he pushed himself against the wall, trying in desperation to keep as far as he could from the source of the horrible and wondrous sound. It was so beautiful, and pure, enough to make him cry during the night when the moonlight shone on her through the window during the night, but he simply couldn't stand being around her, even though it hurt to be away from her. She was so beautiful, blonde hair framing her angelic face, and eyes closed off the the world. He liked to think they were like that because she wasn't to not see the evils of existence and remain pure in body and soul, he really wanted this to be truth, but she was never able to give him an answer he was happy with.

He loved her so much, oh so very much, ever seen her first saw her down below the earth, sitting in a rundown shack, in the middle of a great lake of dark water. The song she sang enchanted him so very much that he freed her and brought her back here, to his home, to this castle that once belonged to a great king, though the queen still lived her. He hated the queen, who refused him when they had first met, though he had never once been able to find her beyond that one one time on the balcony, and it made him wonder why, did she think she could not love him? He could certainly love her more than the king, who had not even been in the castle in gods know how long.

But he had a new love now, one who loved him back, his dear Milfanito, his pure angel that he rescued from imprisonment far below. Oh how he loved her so, so much that during the few times he left her alone it caused him so much pain.

This was why he was doing this, because she was so pure, so innocent, and he was so filthy and toxic. That's why he placed her inside this cage, because he knew that if he opened the door he would not be able to help himself and she... and she...

He cried, tears streaming down his face. He did not deserve her love!

Before he came to this country, he had been a skilled sorcerer, one who dealt in locks and ways to seal away forbidden secrets, and he would use that knowledge to keep her forever safe from him. He threw his sword out the window, the key to this lock that he would be creating. Maybe one day someone would bring it up here and use it, or maybe they would take it far away and beyond the mountains, he didn't know.

"I'm doing this because I love you my dear," he said, his voice shaky. Chains wrapped around his body and bound him tightly to the cell doors, keeping it locked. "I can't bear to see you hurt, but I cannot to be apart from you, so this is the best thing we can do, and be together forever!"

He snapped the lock shut, and he was forever embedded to this cell.


	96. Jester

**Jester**

 _A boldly-colored jester's cap. A nice bit of fun to try on._

 _Jesters are more than festival fixtures: some have a second face, hidden from public view._

The audience laughed and clapped along to the jester's act, him balancing on a large round ball while juggling a set of knives in both hands. The halls of the castle were alive with music and talking, one of his many parties to welcome rulers and diplomats from faraway kingdoms in order to form close bounds with the Old Iron King, though it was a thinly-veiled secret that he was only interested in gaining favor as a means to their land, everyone knew what kind of man he was, but they all played along, feeling as though they would be able to keep one step ahead of him. Others merely stood by and watched, waiting to see what would happen.

The jester began to juggle the knives with one hand, to the amazement of everyone, displaying the dexterity he had, and with his now free hand he picked up a wand with a flaming end. Raising it close to his mouth and blew, creating a plume of fire that filled the room up with fire, and the entire room erupted with a roar of applause. Kicking the ball out from under him, the jester did a back flip and landed on one knee, and his arms up, catching the knives as they fell down, while still holding the flaming wand.

"Amazing" said a duchess, slowly clapping along with the rest of the audience. With a small laugh, she walked away from the throng of people and made her way to the balcony door, and stepped into the night air, closing the door behind her. In the distance she could see fertile land and towering windmills, as well as the development of mining, by the order of the castle's queen, on the behalf of the Old Iron king.

Mytha was the queen's name, correct, she thought to herself. Holding this party to gain favor with him, hoping to marry him, even if it cost her all of Earthen Peak, this was a beautiful land, yet she was willing to sell it for a chance at marriage. She wondered if Mytha knew how much a mining operation of this size would ruin her land? The king certainly deserved a woman with much more foresight than that, someone like her, maybe?

There was a clapping behind her and she turned around to see the jester, he bowed and she smiled, and then he took out his knives and began to juggle them in the air. It was a memorizing display to see, to have her own little private show.

Then the jester threw a knife right at her and it dug itself deep into her throat. She clutched at the wound, trying to stop the blood as it gurgled in her throat, but the jester grabbed her by the hair and threw her off the balcony and into the moat below.

The jester looked down with his mask, pleased with himself. Another threat to the queen gone.


	97. Adventurer

**Adventurer**

 _Strange armor from the ancient land of Zena, birthplace of the curious dealer Domhnall._

 _The two horns and believed to symbolize wisdom, the many medals are believed to symbolize glory, the gold bracelets symbolize a vanquisher, and the inlaid silver rings symbolize an explorer._

The pencil scratched along the rough paper as Domhnall checked out his compass. Turning his head up he looked across the valley and to the aqueduct above him, and beyond that to the city, just another stop in his journey across the land of Lordran. He gave a few more strokes and gave another check to his compass, making sure that no mistakes had been made, before nodding happily to himself and putting the tools away and standing up.

"This seems to be a good map as any," he said aloud to himself. "Aye, this is enough for now, but I'll need to get to higher ground before I can add to it, get a better lay of the land" Rolling the paper up he stuck it into his bag and pulled it over his shoulders and moved on.

"What sort of lunatic are you?" asked one of the locals, much later. He was deep into Hollowing, nearly there from what Domhnall could tell, as least physically. Mentally he seemed reasonably okay, if a bit eccentric, petting the air above his sword like a pet. "What sort of sane person would come to this place just because they were bored?"

"Well I wouldn't say I was bored, so much as curious," Domhnall answered, earnestly. "I come from Zena-"

"Zena?"

"Aye, a great deal's distance from here, I'm an adventurer of sorts, making my way through the world to explore every inch of it I can, to see what the world has to offer."

The merchant gave a bored groan. "I will never understand why so many people flock to this damned county place, then again, who am I to argue, it just means more business for me, see anything of interest?" He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Well if you must know, Blighttown in piss, the Parish is utter bollocks, and the forest beyond that is filled with pillocks. You can try to get to Anor Londo, but no one knows how to get into Sen's Fortress. Welcome to Lordran, try not to die too quickly."

Domhnall laughed. "You certainly seem like a character.

The merchant glared. "I honestly don't know if you're having a laugh at him or are being a git."

Domhnall traveled the land, through the forest, through the Parish, and all across the mountain side, before deciding to make his way down to Blighttown. Eventually he made his way to the sewers, dodging along the cannibalizes as he did so.

He sat back down, and began to draw his maps again, laying down details of where he had been, as well as looking back to the new additions he had made until her heard someone walking through the water towards him.

"Aye, siwmae, and good day to you."


	98. Bandit

**Bandit**

 _Armor of bandits of the Forossan outskirts._

 _The territory of Forossa became lawless after the kingdom fell to war. Citizens became bandits, and scattered to other lands._

The horse galloped through the wasteland, sand flying into the air as it sped across the flat terrain, and the rider whipped the reins harder, spurring it to move even faster. He looked behind him and saw that he was still being pursed by the bandits, a dozen of them, each one riding their own horse, a giant of a beast, and they were catching up to him, he could hear their wild screams as they waved their weapons around, and a couple of them bowing up bows and arrows aiming right at him, but he was able to maneuver his horse out of the way as the arrows whistled by him, though he knew that he would not be able to hold on forever.

One of the bandits rode up to him, and almost slammed his horse into his, and swung down his heavy axe down on him, the rider managed to block the strike with his sword and pushed him back. Snarling, the bandit reached into one of the pouches on the horse's side and pulled out a heavy-looking round item and threw it at him, but it missed and soared over him, exploding on the ground as it did. He then pulled out another bomb and readied himself to throw it, but the rider quickly took out a knife and threw it, hitting the man directly in the chest and sending him off his force, causing the bomb to explode on him.

A thick thud sounded, in the air, and a strike against his back as an arrow hit the large shield he was wearing, and two more bandits rode on either side of him, another with an axe and one with a bow. The one with the axe rushed at him, swinging his weapon wildly at him, but he managed to move his horse out of the way of the swing. On the other side, the bowman readied their next arrow, but the rider pulled the reins and came to a sudden stop, just as the arrow flew by, and ended up hitting the axe-weilder.

Unable to react in time the rest of the bandits dashed past the rider, who quickly turned his horse around and pushed it to run as fast as it could. Even with the head start he knew that he would not be able to run from them forever, and at some point he would have to stand his ground and fight.


	99. Great Lord

**Great Lord**

 _Crown of Gwyn, Lord of Cinder, who linked the First Flame._

 _Lord Gwyn, bearer of the ultimate soul, divided that power among his great clan before linking the flame. But he did keep his crown, his garb, and his greatsword, now befit of power, perhaps to preserve a symbol of the monarch for its actual power had fully subsided._

The ash crunched underneath his sandals as he approached the simple, burnt out sword sticking out of the ground, and looked down at it in pity. Was this really what the First Flame had been reduced to, this small pathetic ember, flowing in the ash, trying desperately to stay alive? Long ago, before there was even time, back when he was a small and powerless thing, he remember crawling towards the First Flame, frightful and in sheer awe of the power and heat it gave off, but despite that he was the first one to reach into the raging fires and take the power within, his own Lord Soul, the single most powerful soul the flame had to give, and took it for himself. He could still remember how that power felt streaming through the weak and frail body he had back then, filling him with the strength he never knew he needed. That was the same strength that allowed him to shape the world to how he wanted, taking his own hands and building humanity from the gray mists that were the origins of the ages.

The Witch of Izalith, and Gravelord Nito, as well as Seath the Scaleless had each taken their own spoils of the war, and each one squandered them all. The Witch destroyed her own city and the people in it, mutating them into demons, corrupting her own Soul in the process, becoming a living surge of everlasting chaos that would never rest. The Gravelord built very little, soon abandoning what he did create in favor of sleeping with the dead in the dark, wasting away his great power in meaningless ways. Then there was Seath, who locked himself away in his tower, dedicating himself to her perverse research, creating abominations like that bastard creature, who was only alive as a courtesy.

The traitors as well, such as Havel, Velka the the Four Kings of New Londo, all of them curs who wished to cause upheaval to all he had made so they could give power to the weak human, and he had no desire to ever see that happen.

Behind him gathered were remains of his Silver Knights, their armored charred and scarred black, the damage done by the flames of Chaos. They had come here as their final service to him, to witness what he would do to continue their Age of Fire. He had only hoped that his daughter would be able to keep that age strong.

Raising his hand, he placed it atop the end of the sword, and fires began to consume him, first his body, and then his Soul, and a bright nova exploded and the entire Kiln was covered in flames.


	100. (Rusted) Mastodon Set

**(Rusted) Mastodon Set**

 _Armor worn by the Primal Knights of Drangleic Castle._

 _It's weight would normally crush a man, but the Primal Knights wear it as if they were silk, or papyrus, so fearsome is their brute strength._

 _The King restored a forbidden, long-lost art to create these inhuman abominations._

The traveler walked through mountain path, the heavy rain pelting off her cloak as she ascended the steps up the winding road, the wind roaring and the ray of moonlight peering through the stormy and dark overhead clouds. Turning the path, she saw what she came for, Castle Drangleic, standing tall and dark and proud, towering over the mountains it had been built into, it was a sight to behold after having searched for so long. This was were her mission now took on the more difficult aspect, it was easy enough to forge the false documents to make her way past the sentries on the road up here, but actually entering the castle would be another matter entirely.

Assassinate the king and queen she was told. She was the most skilled assassin under her king, serving him since she was a small child, killing all sorts of men and women, regardless of their position in life, all for his sake, and he had feared the kingdom of Drangelic, and she was the first one to be called upon to execute the order. The king and queen, Vendrick and Nashandra, were powerful from what she had heard of them, frighteningly so, and that waging a direct war against them would only create failure and death for the offending kingdom, so it was decided to try a different approach. Pretend to be a maid looking for work, to serve under the king and queen, learn their habits and schedules, weaknesses in their protection and exploit them. She'd done things like this before, having earned the name King Slayer amongst her fellows.

After playing the meek girl for the guards at the front gate, she walked up the path to the castle, taking one step at a she studied the castle, a fortress in the mountains. A war would be ill-advised, since this ramp seemed to be the only way to the castle, creating a choke point for them to exploit.

When she reached the stop of the stairs, she froze in shock.

Standing on either side side of stair's end were two monsters, standing large and wide in golden armor, with massive shields and halberds, with strange faces. A long appendage hung from the face, ending gold covering with two short curved short horns from both sides, and two similar, but longer and more curved horns descending from the face and grew outwards, long enough to skew a man through. At first she had thought they were statues, but she saw small movements that told her otherwise, and deep breathing and grunting noises coming from them, and one appendage even curled up and around itself, to scratch the upper part of the length.

She had never seen creatures like these before, and it made her wonder what else she had heard about this castle was true, and the very thought of even half of them being so filled her with a deep and gripping fear. Nonetheless, she marched on.


	101. Masks of the Father, Mother and Child

**Masks of the Father, Mother and Child**

 _The three masks of the Pinwheel, the necromancer who stole the power of the Gravelord, and reigns over the Catacombs._

 _These masks, belonging to the valiant father, the kindly mother, and naive child, slightly raise equipment load, HP, and stamina recovery speed._

Bones rattled through the dark and water splashed and echoed as the figure moved over it. A long metal prod gently poked at the skull on the table, kept alight only by several dim candles, turning it over onto its side. Another one came near it, and with the other pried the jaw open, ripping it from the skull before poking at the teeth that came loose and spilled onto the examination table. After poking around the teeth for several more minutes, the figure used two more prods to to bring over bright lamps, lighting the table better, and they leaned in, trying to find whatever it was they were searching for. Reeling back they stumbled over to the vast collection of books, opening several while each of its three faces constantly switched between all the open books, looking for whatever information they would, anything that could provide any benefit to them.

One of the three faces looked down at the skull and mumbled to the others, sounding displeased with his work, while the other chirped in with her own opinion, offering thoughts how where they could go from here. They turned to each other and continued to grunt and moan, one low-pitched and the other high, while the face above them giggled. The whole body slightly convulsed, the lower edged of the black cloak causing ripples through the shallow puddles that flooded the tomb. At once the three voices continued to argue amongst themselves, but the constant rattling broke them out from their thoughts and caused to the looked back to the table.

Shackled to the table, the headless skeleton struggled against its chains, trying to break free from its restraints, while the bits of skull moved slightly, trying to make their way back to the body. All three voices gave a collective moan before moving over to the skeleton and looked it up and down, before summoning a glowing black and red sprite before it, holding it over the skeleton as it flashed brightly, taking in a black sprite and absorbing it from the subject, before it dissolved into a pile of ashes. Sweeping the ashes into the water, Pinwheel moved towards the opposite end of the tomb and raised itself into the air and out of the exit, and when the landed on the ground, they split into several copies.

Gathering new subjects was always more of an annoyance than anything else, but it was necessary.


	102. Syan

**Syan**

 _Replica of the armor of the loyal knight Syan. This solidly-crafted helm offers high defense._

 _Sir Syan was widely known as the kingdom's most leal knight, and when the Giants invaded, he volunteered to lead the advance party, but was slaughtered most dishonorably._

 _The King commissioned replicas of Syan's accoutrements and bestowed them to promising knights, but not long after they donned the armor did they go thoroughly mad._

"Sir, the boats are coming, and our forces will not be able to repel them for long, I think we'll only have five minutes left before they make landfall and storm the beaches. All our forces are waiting at the shoreline, but there is some trouble amongst their ranks, a restlessness, and seeing the giant come closer is not helping them."

Sir Syan looked over his shoulder to the captain behind him, standing tall and proud before him. "Is this your first war, captain?"

"P-Pardon, sir?" the soldier asked, a bit taken back by the question. "I am willing to put my life on the line for the sake of the king and queen!" He raised his sword and banged it against his shield, as if trying to make his point.

"I did not ask what you were willing to die for, just if you have been in war before," Syan asked, fully turning his body to face the knight. "It would be of no surprise if not, Drangelic hasn't been in a war since we invaded the giant many years ago, where I was just a soldier on the front lines. During your time, you have most likely dealt with simple matters of the state, a monster infestation at best, but all of those will compare little to actually fighting a war with an enemy that has no room in their heart of forgiveness." He turned back to the shore, to see the ships coming closer, and he stepped forward, and the army behind him followed close behind. "KNOW THIS MEN!" he cried out loudly enough for all his soldiers to ask. "KING VENDRICK HAS PUT HIS FAITH IN US TO STOP THIS ATTACK. WE ARE THE FRONT LINE TO OUR HOMELAND, TO DRANGELIC! WE FIGHT FOR KING AN QUEEN AND COUNTRY! AND IF YOU DON'T HAVE THE NERVE TO STAND YOUR GROUND, THEN BE GONE! THIS ARMY HAS NO NEED OF YOUR ILK!"

Several soldiers looked around them nervously, and uncertainly, waiting to see if any others would leave and abond them army, but no one did, all of them remained.

"THAT'S WHAT I THOUGHT!" Syan shouted. "YOU ALL HAVE THE INTERGRITY AND HONOR TO STAND YOUR GROUND AND FIGHT!"

Somewhere along the line, a soldier shouted towards the direction of the beach, meaning the Giants made it to the shore. Syan kept his eyes on them as he saw them step out of their ships, larger than anything he had ever seen. "ATTACK!" he cried out and charged forward, the rest of the army following behind him.

In front of them, the Giants roared their hollowed screams at the sight of the oncoming army, and the cloth-draped mages in their cast flaming boulders at them, crashing into their numbers, but they continued on with their charge.

Syan was the first one to strike at a giant, his halberd hitting its club, but another shadow loomed over him, and looking above him he saw the largest creature he had ever seen, a giant with a massive sword and a crown on its head.

The Giant Lord swung its sword down, killing Sir Syan in one hit.


	103. Black (DSII)

**Black**

 _A black hood. Belonged to Straid of Olaphis._

 _Straid was invited to the old kingdom of Olaphis for his wisdom, but its depths was such those people soon feared him, and in the end Straid was led to a dreadful trap._

 _Straid spent several lifetimes as stone. During this hiatus, kingdoms rose and fell, until the land called Drangelic came to be._

Walking along side the king, Straid let out a loud laugh, and the soldiers around him, as well as the king himself, flinched slightly at the sound, much to his amusement. He enjoyed that he was able to make the most influential men in all of Olaphis shudder at any given action, they really had to self-respect, the fools.

"What are you finding so funny, might I ask Straid?" the king asked, an intelligent sorcerer yes, but blinded by his one arrogance and if there was one thing Straid hated in a person more than anything, it was a sense of undeserved arrogance. "We have gone through painstaking measures to acquire all the materials you asked for, the rare books, the gems and crystals, and even the rare woods to make the catalysts. Everything that you have wanted has been provided for down to the letter."

Straid gave another haughty laugh. "Oh, don't be mistaken, I believe you when you say that you gave all that I said I would need, but you still act as though you simply expect me to conjure such powerful spells from out of nowhere? Even with such a vast collection of knowledge at your hand, you still have so little understanding. Magic is not something you can pluck out of the air, and I have no desire to just learn what every other whelp can learn, but I wish for a better understanding of how it works, and to create spells of my own!"

"I've been meaning to talk to you about such things, Straid," the king said, trying to use his scepter to stand tall. "I've have my own researchers look into what you've requested, as well as many of your past studies, and I have to say that it worries me." The king came to a stop, preventing Straid from continuing forward.

"Is that so?" Straid asked, sounding amused. "So, it would not seem that it I was perfectly justified in suspecting someone had broken into my chambers." He lean forward, a wicked grin on his face, and the king back off. "Tell me, dear king, what is it that has frightened you so much?"

"I saw many things in the scroll and documents you had Straid, and if you are correct about even half of the things you've listed, than you wish to create a spell that would destroy half the kingdom!"

"And do you honestly think I would cast such a thing?" Straid laughed. "I only wish to see if such a thing could be created, but I have no desire to actually set such a thing off."

"Nonetheless, Straid, we cannot let you continue with this research!"

"Feeble cursed one!" Straid spat, pushing past the man and to the large double doors, leading to his laboratory. "You honestly think you can continue my work without me? Such a laughable thought!" Reaching out he grabbed the door handle, before quickly pulling it back, and looking down he saw a cut on down his palm. Curiously, Straid tried to flex his fingers, but found it difficult to do so, but as his hand slowly began to turn to stone it all pieced together in his mind. "You boobytrapped the door?" he said aloud, looking back to the king and his men, who all recoiled at his stare. "Oh, don't you think you are so very clever?"

The petrification spread up and over his head, and soon only a statue remained.


	104. Creighton

**Creighton**

 _Atypical steel mask. Belonged to Creighton the Wanderer._

 _Its design resembles that of the knight order of the eastern land of Mirrah, but with some odd difference that catch the eye._

 _Perhaps it is a finely-crafted imitation?_

The watchman slowly walked the streets of the town, keeping an eye out for for any trouble that could possibly happen during this time of night, and while he had yet to hear a peep out of anyone, he still knew that the middle of the night was that time for the worst things to happen. Overall though, in this small town on the outskirts of the Mirrah capital, things were mostly quiet, and the worst thing he had ever dealt with was some drunken brawls from the local pubs, and maybe a break in or two. Speaking of break in...

Across the street, he saw the local black smith and armory, where residents of the town and travelers would go to buy and repair their weapons are armor, he himself had been there a number of time, and the thing that caught his attention was that the front door was ajar, and that the window on it was broken. Hand on his sword, he slowly approached the shop and opened the door before going inside. It took a moment to adjust to the darkness, but he was able to see well enough in the front of the shop, staying as silent as he could he walked through the shop, trying to see if anything was out of place before something caught his attention, and upon seeing it he was filled with dread.

It was the blacksmith, laying in pool of blood, his body hacked into pieces. The watchman swore aloud, wondering who had done this, but the sound a creaking caused him to turn around, just in time to block a strike with his shield.

Standing before him, having just come out of the backroom, was a man coated in blood, his axe covered in it. His eyes were crazed, filled with bloodlust, and the watchman knew who he was.

"You're that man," the watchman said, pointing towards the assailant. "You're the escaped murderer wanted in the capital!"

"I won't say you're wrong!" the man growled before charging at the watchman. The watchman tried to block the blow, but the murderer was able to overpower him and chopped at his arm, almost taking it off, before knocking him to the ground, leaving him defenseless as the murderer swung down at his neck, chopping through flesh and bone. He kept swinging, kept hacking away, spraying blood across the shop.

When it was done, Creighton could barely contain himself, his grin was so wide that it could split his face, and he wanted nothing more than to laugh until his lungs burst, but he knew he needed to hurry. Running back to the back room, he looked for clean armor to change into, taking whatever else he could use to help him hide. Some provisions, some life gems, was that a knight's set for one of those stuck up Mirrah elite?

One item in particular, caught his attention, a blank steel helm sitting on a shelf. Grabbing it he placed it on his head, his breath hot against the faceplate, but beyond that it fit like a glove.


	105. Leydia Black-White

**Leydia Black/White**

 _Hoods worn by Leydia witches and pyromancers._

 _Leydia apostles worships Galib, god of disease. They once resided in the Undead Crypt beside the Fenito. The Leydia witches grew conceited, and began to manipulate both the onset and curing of diseases, making themselves effective gatekeepers of the crypt._

 _In their conceit, occupied the Undead Crypt and misused death. This invoked the ire of the Fenito, who branded them as transgressors._

Agdayne gripped his hand tightly around the hilt of his sword, heaving it effortlessly onto his shoulder, the massive slab of metal larger than himself, and continued down his path through the darkened paths of the Undead Crypt. Behind him trailed several of the Grave Wardens, faces draped in cloth with their spears, shields and sickles in hands, and around him, in the deep halls, echoing from the darkness, he could hear the sounds of battle. Explosions and screams, and as he occasionally pass by a hall there was a flash of light, but soon everything became silenced. Eventually he made his way through the crypt and walked down a large set of stairs and into a massive hall with multiple pillars on either side, and standing in the center of the room were a number of mages, dressed in either black or white.

"You have abused the power given to you," Agdayne said, coming to a stop, his Grave Wardens falling short behind him.

One of the mages, a woman dressed in black, and a tall cap that covered her eyes, laughed. "Who are you to judge us, Fenito?" she said dismissively.

Another mage spoke, a man in white, his face hidden by his hood. "We worship Galib, he who gives disease and rot unto the world, death itself. The plagues he had blighted upon this world had killed countless men and woman, children as well, indiscriminately so."

"He delivers death on such a grand scale," the black mage spoke. "If anyone is better suite to control death itself, it is those who have dedicated themselves to his word." She then pointed her own staff at him. "Not you, some strange creature who sits around for centuries, lording it over those who reside in these tombs, acting as though you are the lord of death!"

"I do not claim being a master of death," Agdayne said, calmly. "I am merely a servant of death and dark, a task given to me near the beginning of time by the First of the Dead."

"The First of the Dead?" the white mage asked, skeptically. "Who is this First of the Dead, and if he gave you your position, then why is he not ruling over us with an iron fist?"

"Because he is dead himself, for even he knew that even though he ruled over death, he was not immune to it, no one is, and no one has any right to that power if they have the capacity for death." The Fenito pulled the Crypt Blacksword off his shoulder and held it in front of him, pointing it right at the group of Leydia mages. "You will not be offered mercy, and instead you will serve these tombs as well as be their permanent residents."

Darkness began to gather in his hand as he charged, the Grave Wardens just behind him.


	106. Penal

**Penal**

 _Mask, straightjacket, hand restraints and skirt worn by the Lost Sinner._

 _The spikes pointing inwards suggest that this was only only used to blind prisoners, but to torture them as well. A tightly cinched belt presses against the waist. A device used to restrict use of the hands. A tattered skirt that the guilty wear in shame._

 _By now, no one knows who this was used to punish, or for what reason._

She laid on her side on the cold stone floor of her cell, writhing as the constant pain weighed down her entire body, from the handcuffs wearing away at the skin on her wrists, to the tightened feeling around her waist, to the rusty spikes digging into the face. Everything was hurting, but as bad as they were, they were only physical and paled in comparison to the torment of her soul. It twisted and writhed, burning in her chest, almost as if it was trying to escape her body, to tear her apart at the seams.

She didn't sleep, not any more, but she still found herself plagued by dreams too vivid to be mere products of her mind. There was nothing, utter nothing, and then there was fire, so bright and powerful, enough to fill the world with light, and it was hers to control. Whenever she tried to reach out and grasp it, it faded away in her hands, turning to smoke as reality settled back around her and her found herself in her dark cell. The visions became worse as time went on; cities surrounded by burning lava, the man of lightning, a great gathering of skeletons, and a horrible pale beast. What were these things, and why could she not escape them?

There was more fire, but it was wrong, so very wrong, it wasn't supposed to be turn into something like this, the Flame was supposed to be something she could control, to keep their Age alive, but not this. The Chaos tore through everything, burning and scarring everything apart, destroying all she held dear and had worked so hard for, all gone in an instant.

What had she done? What had she done to her children? They suffered now because of her arrogance, either dead, deformed or insane. They tried to warn her about this, but she disregarded what they had because she was a fool who thought she could try and replicate a force she could not even begin to understand, and as a result she had destroyed everything.

NO! She slammed her head against the floor until blood began to pour out from the mask. She never did any of that, she never had any children. She did not try and create life through fire-

She did though, she knew that, it wasn't a some half-remembered vision that was all too real she did, and that was why she was here, to atone for her mistakes in this self-imposed exile. There was fire, and lava, and the great iron beast that came alive, incinerating everyone in the castle as it roared in fury, before destroying the king.

Something itched and crawled behind Eygil's eye.


	107. Bone King

**Bone King**

 _Skeleton Lord Crown._

 _The Old Iron King led his best men on Undead hunts, but their memories were purged in rebirth. The very men who were ordered to hunt down the Undead were themselves hollowed, and founded a kingdom of bone._

The lord allowed himself to chuckle as the Undead tripped over their own feet, falling to the mud as they tried to scramble forward and escape, but the lord merely stepped on their broken leg, pinning them down. He raised up his halberd and placed the blade of the weapon into the Undead's bare back and pressed down lightly, sinking the blade into the flesh, spilling dark blood and cracking through the bones before the fell through, going through its entire body and into the ground below. The Undead screamed in pain and tried to reach around and grab at the weapon, but the lord merely lifted up his halberd into the air, dangling the Undead at the end. He then slammed the Undead against the side of the cliff, having it fall off, the wound in its chest gaping, pitifully trying to defend itself as the lord brought his weapon down, severing the head from the rest of the neck with a thick thud. He grabbed the head and raised it into the air with scream before throwing it into the ravine below, and cackled as he made his way back down the path he had come up.

Later he entered the main auditorium, where people and other participates would wait for the hunt to begin, though at the time only the three lords of this land where present, waiting between seasons for the hunt to begin at the behest of the king. Upon walking into the auditorium, the halberd-wielding lord saw his two fellows in the middle of the conversation.

"The Old Iron King is dead," said with the scythe. "I saw it myself, as all of Iron keep has been sunken into lava and consumed by fire and flames, destroyed by a giant monster made of iron."

"They finally built that thing?" the halberd-wielding one asked. "I always knew that one day his own conceit would be his undoing, but now what? Certainly without the king his entire kingdom will fall to pieces to be snatched up and torn apart by opportunists who have been trying to find there was into his graces."

"And soon there will be nothing left of what he left behind, as he had no queen, nor an heir to inherit it all, soon there will be nothing left.

"Then I suggest we do the same," the mace-wielder said. "The Old Iron King gave us charge of his Undead hunting ground, the Huntsman's Copse, many years ago, as well as the surrounding lands, and while there may not be much here in terms of resources, it was nonetheless a prominent location within his empire. We can easily begin our own empire from the ashes of his."


	108. Sanctum Knight-Soldier Gauntlets

**Sanctum Knight/Soldier Gauntlets**

 _Armor of the Sanctum Knights._

 _The Sanctum Knights renounced their own flesh to eternally guard the Sanctum from Sir Yorgh and his Drakeblood Knights._

 _Gauntlets of the Sanctum Soldiers, these gantlets are corroded by the poison of the slumbering dragon, making it difficult to discern their original shape._

The sounds of battle could be heard in the air above the city, swords clashing against swords and armor, screams and shouts, miracles and hexes being chanted and cast. The invaders had pushed themselves into Shulva, knocking back any and all who tried to go against them, to repel them back into the reaches of the caves, but they had proven to be simply too strong. Sir Yorgh, leader of the Drakeblood Knights, as they called themselves, had made their intentions clear, the crown of the Sunken King, and the blood of their god dragon, but one of these was an offense too great to permit. Even now they could hear the army coming closer, and soon they would be at the temple's doors and would pry them open, leaving the entire sanctum open to the invaders.

"Are you certain that this plan will work?" asked the leader of the Sanctum Knights to the priestess. Together with another half-dozen of the knights who served under him, were currently in the sarcophagus chambers, the upright caskets lining the room, each one holding a descended member of the knights who had died valiantly in battle for the sake of Shulva and for their god. At this point, most of them had been empty, waiting to be filled up with bodies.

"We may not have much time to consider any other alternative, my lord," the priestess said, the soft material of her robes rustling with her movements. "The Sunken King has given me permission use whatever methods we can think of, and this hex is the most extreme one I have in my possession." She turned around and gestured to the surrounding sarcophagus. "If we can separate your soul from your body, the soul will be able to stand guard and fight off the invaders, immune to all physical attacks they have, but only so long as the body remains undisturbed. If they are able to destroy the body, than the soul will gain physicality, and will remain as vulnerable as your bodies.

The knight stood there and looked around to his fellows and contemplated the choice, with it weighing heavily down on him.

"Sir!" cried a scream from the door, only for one of the lower ranked soldiers to run into the door. "The Drakeblood Knights, they've gotten within sight to the temple, it won't be long now before they get here!"

With that the knight turned back to the priestess and gave a firm nod. "Very well, do what you must to us, I will do anything to defend the house of our lord, even if it means dying, so giving up my body should not be be anything more dreadful than that."

The rest of the knights volunteered with him and underwent the process.


	109. Looking Glass

**Looking Glass**

 _Armor worn by the Looking Glass Knight. Made of metal, but has high lightning defense._

 _Those who wish to serve the king as loyal warriors must take the King's Passage and face the Looking Glass Knight._

 _Those who fail the test are sacrificed by the merciless specular monstrosity._

The knight swung his mace overhead, bringing down its massive weight down on the stone statue before him, shattering the horse-head to pieces before shoving it onto its back. With it laying defenselessness before him he raised his weapon again and swung down again, striking the statue's chest with enough force to scatter shards of stone across the hallway. With that the only sounds he could hear was the wind outside, filtering in though the broken windows, blowing the torn banners strewn across the room about. There was also rain, a torrent storming outside, as well as fierce lightning and thunder storms, the outside being briefly lit up in a brightness along with the loud crack of the storm. He took a moment to look around the hall, seeing its darkened and ruined state, and wondered briefly what this room had once been back when the castle had still been in use.

With nothing to keep him hear he stepped out through the large door at the end of the hall and into the outside world, into the storm. He now found himself in open air, in the ruins of what had once been a building, rubble and debris could be seen about the ground, marks of battles long past, and it just made him wonder just how long it had been like this. Then something caught his across, across the ruins, sitting in the middle of the ground; a large mirror, standing straight up. He's seen that mirror before, numerous replicas of them hanging on walls through the castle, but what would it be doing here?

Suddenly a shape stood up from behind the mirror, tall with reflective armor, he could see the rain pelting off the armor, with a large sword in it's hard, and holding the mirror in the other, like a giant shield. The helm was what disturbed him the most, a black face with a crown of thorns on its head, it was all very unnerving to him. With heavy step it charged at him, leaping into the air and swinging its sword downwards on him, but he managed to roll out of the way before it could hit him. Jumping up he swung at it, but his mace merely bounced off the reflective shield, surprising how solid if felt beneath his attack, and the monster retaliated by swing its sword at him, a heavy blow that threw him back, skidding him onto his back and into the water collecting on the floor. As he stood up he was able to catch the monster raising its sword once again, this time high into the air, and he could see it glow and crackle with power, electricity dancing along the length of the blade, and it swung, sending a wave of lightning at him, and he doubted he would be able to dodge the blow so he threw up his shield and took the brunt of the blow.

Shaking feeling back into his legs he charged at the monster, but it dropped its shield in front of him it, and he came to a sudden stop. For a moment he could see himself reflected in the dark glass, but it soon faded, and was replaced by something else entirely, a figure banging against the glass, causing it to crack.


	110. Tseldora

**Tseldora**

 _Robe worn by settlers of Tseldora. Rather fancy, but with low defense and unfit for battle._

 _Tseldora flourished with the discovery of brightstone, deep under the settlement. But with this prosperity came greed in equal measure, and the people were in search of what which they lacked._

The Duke stared at the cage before him on the desk, and to the giant spider that crawled along the bars on the inside, using its forearms to clean its fangs. He then reached out to a box that sat on the other end of the desk and pulled out a large living rat that squirmed and struggled in his tight grasp, but he merely opened the cage door and threw it in, closing and locking behind it. The rat was barely giving time to even get up when the spider pounced on top of it, pinning it down with its larger body and sinking its fangs into its fur and flesh, causing it to seize up, with the occasional spasm.

"My lord!" cried a voice from behind, shaking the Duke out of her observations, having him turn to the source of the annoyance, only to reveal one of the simple-minded clerks.

"What is it that you want?" the Duke spat, the man flinching at the response. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

"But sir," the clerk persisted. "You're wanted down in the main offices to discuss recent prices changes supply shipments, as well as the possibility of hiring mercenaries to protect outgoing deliveries. There have been a spike in bandit sightings, and it has many of our buyers concerned-"

"Be quiet you fool," the Duke growled. "I can hear the words you are saying, and I have already grown tired of them."

The clerk back off slightly, appearing nervous. "I-I'm terribly sorry sir, but it's time for that meeting now."

"Very well," the Duke growled. "I will be there in a moment, go ahead and tell the investors to only wait for a few minutes, and I will arrive shortly."

"Very well, my lord," the clerk said, backing away out of the room. With him gone the Duke turned back to his dear Freja and smiled fondly down at her as she dined away at her meal before carefully picking the cage and hanging it back up. He knew if he didn't go ahead with the blasted meeting, then they would send more people to come and bother him, and he just preferred to get these things over with as soon as he could, so he stepped out of his office and into the mines that lead to the Cavern. Before heading to the exit, he made his way to the ledge of the cliff and looked straight up to the fossilized dragon hanging above him.

Out of all the things to be mined out of Brightstone Cove, this dragon was the greatest thing they had uncovered, a legitimate dragon too, the stuff of legends and stories he had heard as a child. Such a marvelous, wonderful thing it was, how he loved to simply stare at it for hours at a time, to simply be within its gaze...

It was almost as if it was staring back at him.


	111. Sack

**Sack**

 _Bloodstained patchwork sack worn by the Undead man-eating cook lurking in the Depths. Two eyeholes have been haphazardly cut out._

 _It is unexpectedly soft and comfortable to wear, but it is probably near meaningless in terms of defense._

The sprite of Humanity glowed softly in her hand, providing a dark light in the poorly lit bog, she stared at it with hungry eyes before crushing it in her palms. It exploded in a small shower of sparks that floated into the air before flying towards her body, vanishing into her chest. Maneater Mildred gave an unnerving smile underneath the burlap sack on her head as she felt her body tingle from the sensation, glad for the feeling, and immediately began to crave it further. Reaching into the only pocket on her sparse clothing, she pulled out the Cracked Red Eye Orb and stared at it with great interest, hoping and waiting for the shard to shiver and shake as it found someone to hunt. She didn't have to wait long thankfully before the eye became wild as it found its next target.

Her body felt light and floaty, a surreal moment as she slipped out of the world, and into the next, appearing on a small island in the swamp. She quickly scanned the area, looking for who she was meant to kill before spotting them across the the filth at one of the large sewage drains, and spotted the person standing right at the opening. She grabbed her Butcher Knife in one hand and her Plank Shield in the other before charging at her, her movements through the thick and putrid sludge easy due to the magical properties of the rusty ring on her finger.

Stepping onto soggy land she swung her knife down on them, but they managed to block the blow with their own shield and shoved her back into the bog, and made for their own attack, which she took the brunt of. She managed to block the next blow, but the shoddy wood did not provide the best stability for the blow, but was enough to keep her safe for the moment, and give her an opening to swing her knife down on them, the thick blade digging into the shoulder, blood spraying into the air as she yanked it out. The victim rolled out of the way of the next blow and swung their sword at her, driving it into her side.

The fight continued for a short while, but ultimately ended in her defeat when the victim launched a fireball into their face, severing her connection to this world and sent her back. She screamed in fury when she returned, a primal yell that echoed through the entire swamp, as she had not been able to gain any of the Humanity she desperately craved, and already she could feel the hungry beginning to gnaw away at her body.

A bright light then shone from below, and she reached down to pull out the only other item she had on her, the Soapstone had begin to give off a small pulsing light. She felt euphoric, the invasion had failed horribly, but maybe she could gain humanity this way?

As she appeared in her beckoner's world, the person she met with was the one who had defeated her.


	112. Crimson

**Crimson**

 _Mask of the sorcerers who flooded New Londo to seal away the Darkwraiths, and the Four Kings who descended into Dark._

 _It symbolizes their resolve to keep the seal shut forever and their atonement for all who were sacrificed, but who of the three forsook New Londo upon tiring of their duty. The Sealers were once known as healers, and the bright crimson was a symbol of that._

"I can't do this anymore, I just..." came a sorrowful voice. "I'm sorry, Ingward, but this place is too much for me to take anymore, I have to get out of here."

Ingward turned from the expanse of flooded city to this sole companion. "So, you would abandon me too, Yulva?

Yulva shook her head, her expression hidden behind her golden mask, the same one he wore. "Ingward, we can do no more good here, and we are the only ones left here. We trained to be healers, but all we are now are crypt keepers, and I must be honest, I do not wish to be here in New Londo any more."

Ingward said nothing at first, and ambient sounds of the flooded city could be heard; the sound of water lapping against the buildings, and the screams and cries of the ghosts and banshees who haunted the ruins above the waterline, including the church whose roof they resided on. The screams were constant, and there was never a moment of silence from those reminders of what was needed to be done.

"We were given a duty, Yulva," Ingward finally said, his voice tired. "When the threat of the Darkwraiths became too much for Artorias or Anor Londo to handle, we were given the order to make sure that they would never expand beyond the borders of New Londo, and we did what was needed of us. Now, it is our duty to make certain that the seal remains locked until the Chosen Undead comes bearing the Lord Vessel."

"We killed hundreds, Ingward," said Yulva, her voice low. "We sealed off all entrances, and flooded the city, dooming every man woman and child to a watery tomb. Even today their spirits haunt us, taunting us with deserved vengeance, and I cannot bear that guilt on my shoulders anymore. The witch who visited us before we began the flood, she told us what we were doing was wrong, and she tried to fight the Four Kings herself."

"That woman most likely died," interrupted Ingward. "If she had not had her Humanity drained by the Darkwraiths, or even if she had somehow gained the ability to traverse the Abyss, it would be unlikely she could have defeated them by herself. A mage's abilities would be difficult to that victory." He shook his head solemnly. "Either way, we never saw her again."

"But she tried, Ingward, she tried. She wanted to find another way, and we should have done so as well!" she pleaded.

"Those are events of the past, and we can do nothing to change them."

"No, but we can try to make up for them. As I said, I can no longer be here, and I do wish you would come with him, so that we may use our abilities to try and bring relief to the living, instead of just staying surrounded by the dead. What do you say, my old friend? Will you please come with me?"


	113. Black Witch

**Black Witch**

 _Robe worn by Zullie the Witch, seducer of Alva the Wayfarer._

 _When Zullie the Witch learned of Alva's dedication to Saint Serreta, she used all manner of tricks and deceit to ruin him, but in the end she would spend her life with him, supporting his endeavors._

 _The witch, as unloving as she was unloved, finally found illumination through her blighted existence._

The giant monster roared as it swung down its legs, taking out the pillars that surrounded it, sending stone flying around the room while it wildly trashed about. It then saw its prey running around, dodging the blows and falling debris, and then launched its entire body at it, massive jaws drooling acidic slobber, but the figure missed, and the monster missed, soaring over its body, and crashed through a wall. Struggling, it tried to dislodge itself from the hole in had made, but found itself stuck, unable to pry itself free, giving the small figure the opening he needed to run forward and plunge and hack his sword at the unprotected neck, creating large gashes, allowing the blood the flow freely. The monster's struggles begin to slow until it can barely move, and then is left dead, all life leaving its body.

Alva pulled his sword out from the creature's scaly flesh and made his way to the throne, sitting under a beam of light from above.

"She doesn't return your love, you know this to be true, Sir Alva," said Zullie, lounging on the empty queen's throne, one leg crossed over the other. "She is one of your church's saints, and she will never even consider any advance you make on her. Like all those who enter those ranks of the church, she sees you as nothing more than a servant, a valuable one yes, but a servant in the end is all you will be."

Alva walked up the platform to the thrones and paused at the top step, looking over the witch who sat in one throne, before turning his attention to the other, to the finely dressed skeleton with the large crown on its head, and took out an engraved golden coin from its cobweb covered hand, breaking the bones in order to do so. When he turned around, Zullie was standing right in front of him.

"You dedicate yourself so hard to save Saint Serreta, yet all you can hope for is a pat on the head, like a good little dog." She stepped forward, her heels clicking against the old stone tiles, and slowly traced a hand down his red-draped breastplate. "I would happily reward your loyalty so much more than they ever could," she said, a devilish smirk visible between the cuts of the veil she wore. "I would make you happy man, one who would be appreciated for all their his work and dedication." Drawing herself closer, she leaned up to his ear. "You would never feel as though your own needs and feelings were being taken advantage of, and would always be returned."

The knight simply stepped away and to the side, away from the witch, and walked away from her, towards the throne room's exit.

Zullie watched Alva leave, and the fury continued to build in her. Saint Serreta, the uppity, prudish high class pig, with her holier than thou attitude, that woman deserved the illness that ate away at her body, and her dull-minded, tongueless and hopeless follower deserved to suffer in failure. She would certainly enjoy doing everything she could to break him and put a stop to his dedication, a dedication that even after all this time still brought her endless confusion. For all his suffering, and the trials he went through, Alva was fully dedicated to his cause; how could anyone dedicate themselves to greatly to another person?

The very thought made Zullie seeth.


	114. Shadow (DSII)

**Shadow**

 _Used to hide in the cover of night. Those who are especially adept assassins are often hired as body guards._

 _In an attempt to stave off the curse, King Vendrick hired shadow men to put down the Hollows, but before long they were Hollowed themselves._

The prisoner pushed forward, knocking the guard over as he did so, his armor clattering heavily against the stone floor and struggled against him, trying to keep his hands out of reach of the heavy sword, before he was able to grab it himself. Pushing himself up to his feet before the guard could, he held the weapon up in shaky hands as he tried to hold it up, and pointed it against the downed guard's neck.

"You're going to get me out of this place," the prisoner said, his voice ragged.

"You think I'm going to help you, you sorry sod?" the guard choked out a laugh. "You must be really out of your mind if you think that I can actually get you out of this place, have you even taken a look outside your cell window? There's nothing but ocean for miles around, you could never swim to the mainland."

"I don't actually have a cell, thank you for asking." The prisoner leaned down, pressing the sword against his chest. "Until recently, I was put in a cage and hung in the dark, not a single window around. I haven't seen the sunlight in who knows how long I've been here."

"What do you expect? This is a prison, not some sort of beach-side resort."

"But I have done nothing wrong!"

"You're an Undead," the guard hissed. "You should be thankful that you're not in a coffin, six feet deep."

The prisoner adjusted the sword and pressed the blade against the guard's neck, drawing a line of blood. "The exit, how do I get to it, and how do I get off this island?"

"I told you, you can't. There's only one dock, and a single ship that comes in every week with prisoners and the next shift, and it came in the other day, so you're not going anywhere for a while."

Losing his nerve, the prisoner brought the weapon down and stabbed the man's throat, leaving him to choke on his own blood, and then jumped back away from the body. Adrenaline began to rush through his body and he ran down the ruined halls, trying to find somewhere to hide, to think of what do do next, evading the guards as best he could. When the alarm sounded, he knew the found the body, and he would need to be quick and do something.

He eventually found himself in a store room, and judging from the dust and cobwebs, it had been a while since anyone had last been in here, so this place might serve as a suitable hideaway for now. He had a vague notion of where the entrance to the prisoner was, he could see some of it through the bag on his head hen he had brought in, all he had to do was try and-

There was a creaking noise, and a light thud.

Turning around, he saw a figure crouching down on the ground, their back turned to him. Slowly they raised themselves up and turned to face him, to reveal a figure dressed in black, with a bird-like mask, and reaching behind their black with a clawed hand they pulled out a black dagger.

He backed away from it, and gripped the stolen sword tightly, when another thud sounded behind him, and then something gripped him by his hair and a blade slit his throat.


	115. Alonne

**Alonne**

 _Armor worn by Sir Alonne, who served the Old Iron King._

 _Sir Alonne came to this land from the east, chose to serve a little-known and unestablished lord, and helped him become the Old Iron King._

 _Then, at the end of the very peak of his sire's rule, Sir Alonne set out again, in search of lands yet unknown._

The knight stood on the balcony, arms folded over his chest, overlooking the expansive barren fields of dust and wastelands, littered with massive craters dug in them, the result of tireless mining and quarry construction, all in the name of searching for iron. Once this land land been beautiful, filled with deep green forests, and deep blue lakes, and colorful fields of flowers, but that had been so long ago, he had almost forgotten what it had once looked like. This was the result of greed and ambition taken too far, of an all consuming avarice that threatened to devour everything around it, stripping everything of value until there was nothing left. The land surrounding this tower was an example of this, a once beautiful and fertile land, being rendered of everything that made it pure, leaving it a barren wasteland. This tower stood at the very edge of the Iron King's expansive territory, far from his seat of power of the Iron Tower.

Sir Alonne stepped away from the view and looked around polished room, his own personal training room, given to him back when they first completed the tower, as a reward for his work in acquiring the land it was built on. It was fitting that this was the place he had chosen to make his stand, or rather where he had hoped to make his stand.

Off in the corner, in a small room, was a simple wooden throne, a reminder of simpler times, before the power and greed, the ornate castles and statues, before everything became so ostentatious. Back when he had chosen to serve a simple lord with a small and modest kingdom.

Turning away he lowered himself and sat down on the ground, laying his hands on his knees, with his sword on the ground in front of him. He had made his decision to leave the services of the Old Iron King, to get away from everything the man had once become, leaving only a letter behind of his intentions. Only for a day would he remain here, before continuing on his way to unknown lands if he had not come to meet him, and he hoped that he would, he would hate to leave the last meeting they had to be the last time they saw one another.

They were both proud men, he would admit that much, men who craved battle, something that had played a large part in forging their bond, from the moment they met, and as far as Alonne was concerned, this was how they should depart one another.

Eventually, he heard the sounds of heavy foot steps approaching, the sounds of heavy iron plates rattling against each other, and looking up he saw him appear through the door; the Old Iron King, his friend, the large iron crown atop his head, and the massive molten rock and iron club in his hand, his face filled with an unending fury. Neither said a word, but both understood what this meant. Alonne stood from his seat, picking up his sword into a stance, and nodded his head.


	116. Desert Sorceress

**Desert Sorceress**

 _Sorceress hoods from the distant land of Jugo. Appears to be plain, thin fabric, but is permeated with powerful magic._

 _Desert Sorceresses have enchanting look, and they use them to catch people off guard._

 _Oddly enough, even those who are perceptive enough to realize the ploy fall pray to their seductions with alarming regularity._

Heels clicked against the stone floor of the entrance hall as the group entered the castle, and already they could hear the sounds of the party within, of laughter and yelling, the smells of glorious and wondrous dinners wafting through the air. After the long journey, they had endured, it was a welcome change from the meager campsite meals they had been eating. However, standing in their way between the castle's inner halls and them was a single person, a beautiful woman dressed in an exquisite dark green dress, and deep brown hair. However, despite the beauty, the leader of the group could something cold and dark in the woman's eyes, and she could feel it entirely directed upon her and her party at the moment.

Oh, how fun.

"Welcome to my castle," the woman said, giving a polite bow. "I am the queen of this land, Queen Mytha, and judging from your attire, you must be from the desert land of Jenga."

"Jugo," the leader replied. "But aye, we be from the young kingdom of Jugo."

"Hmm, yes." Mytha said, apprehensively. "Court magicians, if I recall correctly? If I may ask, why not send the king or queen, or any given duke here, I'm certain that the trip here was difficult, so wouldn't it have been wise to send at least someone else along."

"Like I said, Jugo is small, and it still needs its king and queen around, and we have enough standing in the courts to speak on their behalf." The sorceress gave a laugh. "We have plenty of duties, court magicians, advisers," She leaned forward, catching Mytha's eyes. "Even entertainers, should the need arise."

"Ah yes, I see," Mytha said, her voice on edge, strained. "Please, go inside, and enjoy yourselves."

"Oh, I very much intend to," the sorceress said, making her way past the queen, the rest of her group following close behind him.

"My, my," said of the other woman. "What we heard on the road was true, she does really wait at the door like a lost puppy. It's be adorable if it wasn't so pathetic."

"She wishes to entice the Iron King, and so has offered up her home and land, but that may not seem to be enough. Perhaps she thinks that he would show more interest in her if her banquets and balls were attended by exotic dancers from far off countries." The leader of the Desert Sorceresses gave a glance back to the queen, standing anxiously by the entrance, and gave a sly smile. Needy women like that were also such an entertaining thing to watch, and she couldn't wait to see how terribly this would all end for her.


	117. Pharros Mask

**Pharros Mask**

 _A mask depicting Pharros' contraptions. Tears flow from the eyes of the mask, drenching its wearer._

 _The majority of Pharros' creations are perplexing to reasoned men, and this mask in no exception._

He blew into the hole, clearing out the dust from it, making sure that the way was clean to his liking, before reaching over and taking hold of a large container, covered in a sickly yellow substance, a thick noxious smell coming from it. Carefully, he tipped the container over, pouring the acidic substance into the hole, flowing it down into the deep depths until it had reached near the surface, before turning it over and pouring the rest into the other whole next to it. When he was out, he put the container away and reached down to the third hole and pulled out a block of stone, causing two covers to slid over the other two holes, concealing the acid in them. Proud of himself, he stood up and pocketed the stone.

"I believe that I have done what I can here," the man said, reaching down and picking up his tools, and putting them away into his bag. "I have set up enough contraptions to keep your dominion safe for a good long while, Your Majesty."

"And ye are certain that dost wish to move forward with your travels, Pharros?" asked the Rat King, crawling up to the contraption, looking up to the man.

"I am certain of this," Pharros answered, kneeling back down to meet the king. "I am honored that you allowed me residence in your kingdom, and I have certainly learned much during my stay, but nonetheless I feel as though my travels are far from over. There is still much to Drangelic that I have yet to see, and I do wish to see it." Reaching into his bag he pulled out what appeared to be a mask, made from stone, carved with wide eyes and a great beard. "I plan to visit the volcanic regions to the far north, and after a few adjustments this mask will keep me safe from the intense heat of those areas. I've heard there was a series of great towers and reach so far into the sky, that they pierce the clouds. It certainly sounds like it could be interesting."

"If you wish to go, then you may go," the Rat King said. "But know this, Sir Pharros, you will always be welcomed into my kingdom, an honor that has not been bestowed to any human since long before my birth. You have certainly earned a home for yourself amongst my burrows, as not only a friend to rats, but to myself as well."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Pharros said, bowing. "It is an honored to be called your friends." Putting a hand on his knee, he pushed himself up to his knees. "But, now it is time for me to part." He turned around and saw the hallways suddenly lined with rats, all standing on their hind legs, filling him with confusion for a moment. Then suddenly they all lowered to the forelegs and pressed their heads, bowing.

He put the mask on his face, and gave one last look to the Rat King, and was then on his way.


	118. Moonlight

**Moonlight**

 _Crown of the Dark Sun Gwyndolin, protector of the forsaken city of Anor Londo._

 _This crown of the gods demands faith immeasurable of its wearer, but it is imbued with Darkmoon power that enhances all magic. The image of the sun manifests Gwyndolin's deep adoration of the sun._

 _The power of the moon was strong in Gwyndolin, and thus he was raised as a daughter. His magic garb is silk-thin, and hardly provides any physical defense._

The Dark Sun Gwyndolin smoothly made his way across the room, large and empty, before coming to a stop before the monument before him, taking up the entire back of the room, he stared at it for a time, losing himself in the sight of what it was, and what it represented to him. He raised himself up, the snakes connected to his lower body adjusting where they lay, hissing as they did so, lifting him into the air, high enough to see over the sarcophagus, and placed a simple bouquet of flowers on the top. It was empty, of course, since the body it was meant for could not be recovered, and was locked away in its own, special tomb.

It had been many years since his father had gone to the Kiln of the First Flame to keep the fires lit, using his own magnificent soul as the kindling to do so, leaving the heavy burden of ruling the world of man not to him, never him, but to his daughter, Gwynevere, Princess of Sunlight, not even leaving, he had not even spared a farewell to his remaining son. His sister had taken the duty with such grace and elegance, something Gwyndolin had been envious of, why couldn't Father grant him those kind of responsibilities? What would he need to do to prove that he was worthy?

Those duties found themselves on his lap in the end however, when his sister abandoned her duty to her people and to her father, and worst of all she wasn't the first to leave, nor was she the last. All the gods left, none of them having enough faith in what their king had wanted. They were nothing more than traitors, the whole lots of them, leaving this grand city, leaving what was rightfully theirs so that the lowly humans could revolt and take power for themselves. He alone remained to honor his father's last wish, the will he had left behind, and he intended to uphold that will.

So he would hide away, keeping up the illusion of his sister up to act as a symbol for all those of godly status, even as the world decayed around them, and to send his Darkmoon Blades to seek out and eliminate all who discovered the truth.

Now all the was left was him, and for the sake of his father, he would ensure that as far as the world was concerned, the Age of Fire would be as strong as it always had been.


	119. Black Knight

**Black Knight**

 _Armor of the Black Knights who haunt Lordran_

 _The knights followed Lord Gwyn when he departed to link the flame, but they were burned to ashes in newly kindled fire, wandering the world as disembodied spirits ever after._

The knight stepped let go of the ladder and dropped to the ground, its feet splashing into pool of cold water at the bottom of the dark room, before making its way out of it through the door. This lead to the hallway, several Hollows littered the ground, staring off into nothing and too far gone to have anything done to save them. Its attention was grabbed by loud thumping noises coming from nearby, and it looked to its side, beyond the wrought iron fence, to see a massive demon, fat with thick gray, warty skin, and a giant hammer clutched in its small hand. Was that creature still here? Where was the other one, there were supposed to be two here, but when it had not seen the first one it had assumed that both had either escaped the asylum or had died. Either way, why the demon was still here, was of no interest to it, so it turned its head away from it and continued its way down the hall.

It stepped over the Hollows in its way, and ignored the once still locked away in their cells, banging helplessly away at the iron bars, where they would remain trapped forever. The only cell that interested it was the one at the very end, the door to which was wide open. It was perhaps one of the larger cells in the asylum, with the best accommodations, a ragged blanket, a stack of hay, even a bucket and a hole in the ceiling to allow in sunlight when it parted through the clouds. That was a rare event in itself however, a clear sunny day this far north with this climate, and snow and rain were more likely to happen. There was a dead body here, but it was old, something had been like that for a very long time, but overall there was nothing too special about this cell.

It did however belong to the only person to have ever escaped one of the Undead Asylums. As far as they knew, no one had even been able to escape from these mountain-topped prisoners, ever, so how was one single Undead able to do so?

Something caught its eye and it looked down, seeing something just underneath the hay, so it knelt down and brushed the hay aside to reveal what was underneath; a simple wooden doll. Its joints were held together by metal hooks, a dress made of think cloth, and straw hair, a very peculiar thing, why would an Undead have something like this on their person? Did it belong to them when they were a child, or perhaps it had belonged to their child, before they were ripped out of their lives forever?

Who had been the previous owner of this doll?


	120. Black Iron

**Black Iron**

 _Armor of Black Iron Tarkus, a knight known of his great strength._

 _Built of a special black iron and providing strong defense, notably against fire, but so terrible heavy to be unwieldy to all but Tarkus himself._

The sword, large and made of heavy iron, swung through the air with grace, striking the Iron Golem square in the leg, cutting deep into the metal, causing the giant to stagger where it stood. He pulled the sword out, sparks flying, and stabbed forward, digging the blade into the kneecap, with enough force that it was enough to cause Iron Golem to stumble backwards before finally it gave way and crashed onto its back. The entire structure they stood on shook as its immense weight hit the ground all at once, and for a moment Black Iron Tarkus had believed that it would collapse. It struggled to get up, heavy arms swinging around as it tried to push itself to its feet, but was unable to do so, and with it down, Tarkus took the moment to grab onto the Iron Golem and climb up onto its body.

He stood above the core, feet planted firmly against the iron of its chassis, and grabbed his hand in both his hands. Keeping the Iron Golem's face in his sights, and plunged the sword down, embedding the sharp blade into the head of the construct. Its arms and legs wildly trashed about, the massive axe taking out chunks of the ground as it swung randomly, but with a twist of his blade, the head cracked apart, and the entire body stopped moving, the limbs dropped into the ground with the grace and elegance of an avalanche, and it did not move after that. Certain that the Iron Golem was dead, Tarkus drew his sword out from the creature and jumped off of it, his own landing heavy against the stone bridge.

Tarkus looked to his fallen foe, looking it over before turning away and heading to the gates to Anor Londo, but stopped when he had seen the seen the entrance, stuffed with rubble and fallen rock, and from the way it was piled in their he knew that someone had gone out of their way to seal it and make sure that no one would make past the gate's guardian. Just how would he make it to the fabled city of the gods now?

He then caught the sight of something flying in the air, and looking up he saw several creatures in the air, gangly limbs and pink skin, with incest-like wings, each one holding a long spear. Before he could do anything, they dove at him grabbing him by the arms and legs, straining under the weight of his armor, and lifted him high into the air, but never dropped him to the ground.


	121. Faraam

**Faraam**

 _Armor worn by the Forossa Lion Knights._

 _The might Lion Knights, worshipers of the war god Faraam, wore heavy armor and were feared for their nimble-handed swordplay._

 _But their legacy was cut sort with the fall of Forossa._

He will lose his souls, over and over again, that was what they had told him, enjoying themselves a bit too much for his liking, and he did not doubt them for a moment. Just how long had it taken him to get here, and how many times did he die in doing do? It was too many to count, he knew that for sure, and he had long since stopped counting the details of every death he had suffered; the stabs and burns, the crushed bones and severed flesh, the sounds of monsters much larger than him crushing his body between their teeth, and the blood filling his lungs. At this point, dying was mostly an every day occurrence, something that he just had to live with in this unlife of his. This place, this kingdom of Drangelic, had been his destination for many years, and part of his memory as to why had vanished along with his memories, he only hoped that he would be able to reclaim that part of himself.

Stepping out of the cave, he had to block the light out of his eyes as he came to the warm, orange sun. Just how long had it been since he had seen the sun? As his eyes adjusted he could hear the sounds of waves crashing against rock, and the smell of salty waters. He walked down the path, walking through the broken stone gateway and found himself looking at a handful of rundown houses, each one broken and in disrepair, as though they would all fall down in a moment's instance, a large and deep gaping well in the center of the town, and on the highest seaside cliff was a tall stone monolith. His eyes were drawn to a bonfire, and he walked over to it, touching the burning sword, giving life to the fire it held and rested at it, a soft warmth filling his body, healing his wounds and exhaustion, bringing a new sense of life into his flesh and soul. As long as he had a bonfire near him, he felt as though he never needed to eat or sleep, but could simply go on for as long as his determination allowed it.

Lifting his head from haven, he gave another look around, and saw a large shape standing by the cliff, just beneath a barren and dying tree. Pushing himself to his feet, he could see that it was a person, wearing a dark green cloak, the fabric waving in the wind from the sea. This person, whoever they were, was simply staring out into the open sea.

He approached them, and altered to his presence, the person turned around, and the knight found himself facing a woman with auburn hair covering one eye.


	122. Iron

**Iron**

 _Armor of Solaire of Astora, Knight of Sunlight. Of high quality, but lacking any particular powers._

 _Solaire's incredible prowess must have come from the rigorous training alone, for his equipment exhibits no special traits._

The Hollows in front of him were harmless as far as he could tell, kneeling before the altar, praying to the deity to which it was dedicated, though he knew they knew not why. At this point, their faith was nothing more than a shadow of what it had once been, their actions were only the remains of the people they were no longer. It was oddly comforting to him, to see these Hollows at the altar. Solaire looked at the altar, the crumbled remains of the statue, and found himself wondering what it had looked like when it had been whole, what the god's form had been. It was foolish, many people had said to him, that he had put so much dedication and faith into a god that had long since been forgotten by so many, to have been exiled from not only Anor Londo, but from Lordran itself. Nonetheless he held onto his faith, knowing he had been right in where to place it.

He hoped so at least, that's why he came here in the first place, why he did not view his Cursing with dread as others had. It allowed him the opportunity to come to this land without fear, to resist deaths that would most likely happen to him, giving him chances to help those who needed someone to hold out their hand, and to give me a chance to... to...

Ever since he was a child, Solaire had always believed in the best of people, that given the chance, a person's best would always shine through the deepest reaches of their own darkness. This was why he would always give his own help to others who were in danger, no matter who they were, so that one day this would lead him to finding his sun, his very own sun. Again, people had insulted him over his beliefs, belittled him, and some went even so far as to assault him due to his unwavering faith.

Truth was that sometimes even he doubted he knew what his sun was. There was so much wrong with the world, he knew that, despite what others had been being naive or stupid, and he wanted to do something about that, though he wasn't too certain how. There had to be a way, he just knew there was something that he could do to make the world a better place.

There had to be a force of goodness out there, a glorious incandescent beacon in a world filled with despair and darkness, but he just didn't know what that was. Despite this, he knew that he had to find it, whatever it was, and kept going on his journey to find it.

Praise the sun.


	123. Fume Sorcerer

**Fume Sorcerer**

 _Mask worn by Fume Sorcerers._

 _After the Old Iron King sunk into lava, scores of men were dispatched to this land to tap the replete stores of iron._

 _But they soon lost their nerve when faced with the Child of Dark, and all but the must steadfast of them became servants of the black fog._

"Well this is certainly a sight to beyond," asked the Fume Sorceress, kneeling down, running a hand over the ash that coated the ground. She picked up a hand full of ash and let it run through her fingers, and it blew away into the wind, rubbing what remained into the black leather of her glove. Standing up, she looked from her where she was around around the room, large and circular, the floor covered in thick piles of ashes, massive iron cogs and rubble buried in it, and a large iron throne in front of her.

"So, this is where the Old Iron King was ruled from?" asked a voice from behind her. Her partner stepped up to her side and up to the throne, running a hand over the armrest before taking a seat in it, his own, normal-sized body seeming small on it. From what she heard, the Old Iron King had been a giant of a man, and even the most mighty of normal human seemed so weak and diminutive when compared to him. "I have to admit it is amazing though, it's only been a few years since he went up in flames, yet this tower has already fallen to pieces."

"That's the thing that's interesting," she said, looking up to the open sky. "The roof seems like it's been removed, blown off maybe." Stepping away she walked over to the walls and looked over them. "From here I can see one of the towers are still active, giant clouds of black smoke out of it, still burning away."

"Your point being?" he asked, reclining in the throne, getting comfortable.

"Even with the fact that this is area is volcanic, there shouldn't be this much ask covering all the towers like this," she continued, turning back to him. "There's something else here, I don't know what, but there's something here, and I don't know what it is. I know you can feel it too, it's in the air, I can feel it pressing against my skin, like the air itself is doing something to me."

"You're not alone in that feeling," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "Ever since we came up on the chains, it's like there's something watching us, spying on every single move we make." He walked over to the middle of the room and reached down into the ash, and threw it into the air. "I think its the ash itself that holds something special in it, there's some powerful magics in here, but we don't know what."

"We still have to go on though," she said, heading back to the bonfire. "We need to gather the others and keep descending down the tower. We're here to collect as much iron as we can, and we are equipped well enough to deal with whatever this tower has to throw at us."

As she left he listened closely to the silence, ignoring the winds, and the far off mechanical noises of the tower beyond their reach, and faintly there was something there.

Whispers.


	124. Black Sorcerer

**Black Sorcerer**

 _Cloak worn by secret sorcerers at Vinheim Dragon School._

 _They secretly work with sound-based spells, and never reveal themselves._

"Do you know what we've called you here today, Griggs?" asked the headmaster, leaning over his desk, peering at the young man seated before him.

"I-I'm sorry sir, but I do not," Griggs said, trying to avoid direct eye contact with the headmaster if he could help it. "I was simply told by one of the professors that you needed to see me, and right away, so I came here as soon as I could. What am I here for, sir?"

"You've heard about Logan, I assume?" the headmaster asked, leaning back in his chair. "Then again, with that outburst in the library last week, you would have to deaf to not know what is going on with him. He has been very vocal in his recent plans to leave the school and travel," he said with a deep frown.

"Yes, Lordran, correct? Is it true that he is Undead now?"

"We believe so," the headmaster said, simply. "That is why we wish you to follow him?"

"Me?!" Griggs basically jumped in his seat, his heart skipping a beat. "But sir, I cannot follow Master Logan to Lordran! I simply do not possess the necessary skill to travel there, and even if I did, why would you ask me this?"

"Lordran as you know, is where sorcery, the magics we learn, was birthed, created, by Seath the Scaleless, duke to Lord Gwyn, and he is going there to learn more about its origins. In the many years since Logan attended this school as a student, he has made many extraordinary advances in many fields, and who knows what he'll discover if he manages to reach the Duke's Archives."

"And you want me to..."

"To be frank, Griggs, I want you to record his findings, and send them back to us, without his knowledge of what you are doing."

Grigg's face went pale. "You're asking me to spy on Master Logan!"

"Exactly. In recent years he's shown a reluctance to cooperate with us in our studies, and while I must say that I have grown to great dislike the man, I cannot ignore his intellect, and I do not wish to lose that."

"Well, that may be, but why are you asking ME to do this, surely there must be someone else who can-"

"We know you are Undead, Griggs," the headmaster said, causing Griggs to freeze up, clutching the fabric of his cloak over his chest."That's not something you can hide forever, and the way I see it you're going to Lordran either way, but you can choose how you go there; either as a prisoner to be shipped to one of the Undead Asylums, locked away in chains, or as a faithful student who followed his teacher in his self-imposed exile. Tell me, Griggs, which of those two do you think would be better for you?"


	125. Balder

**Balder**

 _Armor worn by the knights of the ancient kingdom of Balder. It is made of thick iron plates._

 _Balder was the homeland of Knight King Rendal, but it came to ruin after a great many Undead were spawned._

"Where do we go from here?" asked one of the Balder Knights to his friends, all of them standing at the front entrance of the church. "We're tried attacking the gargoyles head-on, but that didn't end well, and from what I've heard, the men at Sen's Fortress are having a difficult time trying to break through that damned gate. What do we do from here?"

"What do you mean by what do we do?" asked another. "We were given orders to stay by the door, in case anyone tries to invade the church, as per orders of King Rendal. Balder is currently occupying this place, and until we are free to make a move, no one is to enter this place."

"Who exactly would that be, might I ask?" said the third one. "There's not many people left in the burg who could pose a challenge to us. There's only a few sane residents left, and who cares if a few stray adventures come this way?"

"Nonetheless," the second knight said. "This is meant to be a victory for Balder, and if we are able to ring the Bell of Awakening, we want all of Lordran it was our kingdom that did so!"

"But why exactly? There is no Balder left, it's all gone, devoured by the Curse, it's all gone, and from what I've heard, that not even the mighty kingdom of Berenike was able to stand its ground, and fell to the Undead as well. "

"That is why we are doing this, so rebuild what Balder had lost! We few survivors are on this journey to make certain that we can be as great as once had been."

"There's really nothing to stop us from leaving," the first knight said, absentmindedly. "We can just walk out of here, and no one would even know, and by the time anyone notices, we will have gotten so far away for anyone to do anything about it."

"You are both being fools," the second knight said. "King Rendal will bring our former glory back to Balder, and I wish to be there at every step of the way, a loyal soldier, as I have always been, and until he says otherwise, I will remain in this spot, guarding it, and you two will do the same, until it is no longer required of us." The knight stepped away from the two and looked out the door, and to the outside, and he saw something that unnerved him.

Making their way up the street, the knight could see a group of heavily armored knight, garbed in dark armors, Berenike knights he could tell, and he recognized the armor of the man leading them; Black Iron Tarkus.

This would certainly be trouble.


	126. Gough

**Gough**

 _Armor of Hawkeye Gough, one of Gwyn's Four Knights._

 _Received as a decoration of knightly honor. A helm crafted especially for the honorable Hawkeye Gough, only the eye holes were packed with tree resin by those who dismissed Gough as a brutish giant._

 _Armor donned since his days as a dragonslayer. The medallion, bequeathed by the Lord Himself, and the dragon bone pauldrons are symbols of the highest honor. The guantlets and leggings are crafted of similar materials to the gauntlets worn by the Silver Knights._

The knife slid carefully against the stone-like wood in his hand, gently, but firmly, carving away a thin layer of the surface, creating a groove that Gough slid a thumb over, testing it out to make certain that this was something he was happy with. He turned it over, and he felt it in his palm, every inch and groove, every nook and cranny, letting the shape form in his mind, and gave himself a chuckle.

"Thank you," he said aloud and to no one, gently putting the carving down to his side, reached for the pile of chunks of archtree to pull out another lump before he began to carve again.

He couldn't see anything, though it was by his own choice; he could have easily have removed his helmet, to free himself the tree resin that was caked into the eye holes, but her had refused to do so. To him, this was more than just a helmet, it was a symbol of pride for him and his people, gifted him to by Lord Gwyn, for being the first and only Giant to hold the honor of being in his guard. He would rather be dead than to discard such a thing. Still, he did wish he could see sometimes, to see his his creations, his hobby, and the areas around the tower he had taken home in. He had been an archer back during the war, so to his his eyesight was a difficult thing to adjust to, what could he do with no sight? Though, he hardly thought his sight was much of a loss anymore, since there was nothing left for him to do anymore for Anor Londo.

Artorias, Ornstein and Ciaran, in the years after the war, managed to still serve under Lord Gwyn in ways that would be helpful, but he had not, instead he had merely sat back, contributing very little. He had fell dozen of dragons during the war, picking them out of the sky like birds, crippling them and leaving them open for ground forces to take out. Not anymore though, he knew, with nothing left for him, the only thing he could do was retire.

He heard the distant wing beats of Kalameet, and his mind wandered to what the dragon had been doing ever since the war, with it being the only known surviving dragon outside of Seath the Scaleless. Like him Kalameet had taken great pleasure in the war, the fear and anger, the pure exhilaration that came with the constant battles that came with it, but these days there was nothing like that. How had it been these passing centuries, knowing that it's glory days were behind it? That it could never enjoy the thing it did anymore.?

Gough continued on with his work.


	127. Falconer

**Falconer**

 _Armor worn by the Volgen Falconers._

 _Domestic Volgen soldiers are infamously timid, so it is no wonder that this fierce band of mercenary falconers was hired to compensate._

 _In practice they serve as bodyguards for the affluent elite, and they serve well, such that nonbody dares scrutinize their backgrounds._

Leaves crunched underfoot as the group walked down the path, keeping their eyes to the surrounding forest to make certain that they could avoid ambushes from the goblins that inhabited them. On their way here, they had already encountered a number of ugly creatures, and they had no wish to trouble themselves with more of them.

"The castle is close, is it not?" asked one of the Falconers.

"Right over the mountain," said the one in the front. He pointed forward and to the distance, over the line of barren trees, and to the mountain range beyond them, reaching over them all was the clear sight of a great and tall tower. "There should be a tunnel that goes right through the bottom of it that will lead us directly to Drangelic Castle." He raised an arm up and too his shoulder, allowing the large falcon sitting on it onto his arm, and threw his arm up, and the bird screeched and flew up into the sky, heading in the direction of the castle. "We should be too far from it, at this pace we should be there by this time tomorrow."

"And we'll find work there?" asked another one. "We've traveled a long way to come here, and I'd hate it if we did so for nothing."

"Of course we will," the leader said. "Word has it that King Vendrick is sending his men out around the continent, spreading his own forces thinly, so he is looking for outside forces, such as mercenaries like us, to fill that gap." A screech sounded in the air and the leader raised his arm once again, and his falcon landed on the thick leather glove. Raising his other hand he scratched at its neck, craning its neck to meet his finger.

"What is the king after, might I add?" one of the Falconers asked. "It's known what he is doing with his men, but no one seems to be willing to speak about for what purpose, not even the people who have long left his service."

"You think hexes are being cast? To stop them from talking?"

"Maybe, maybe not," the leader continued. "But the king does has a vast amount of wealth, and I wish to gain our own share of it, and possible other riches depending on where he could be sent.

"Will this require us to babysit his soldiers? I've had enough of that for one lifetime, thank you very much."

"Maybe, maybe not, but until we actually get there, we won't know where we will end up."

His falcon jumped from his arm and back onto his shoulder, shaking its feathers as it gripped at the protective leather pauldron.


	128. Big Hat

**Big Hat**

 _Gigantic hat worn by the great sorcerer Logan. It completely his his face, which led to his nickname "Big Hat". Famously antisocial, Logan used it to block out the noise and people's stares so he could focus on his own thoughts, but it does not possess any special magic powers_

 _Robe worn by Big Hat Logan. It is said to have been from his apprentice days at Dragon School, but it is so worn out, no one knows what it originally looked like. Logan, who cared little for his apprentice, no doubt ever bothered to change out of it._

 _Gloves and boots worn by Big Hat Logan. They are indistinguishable from the ordinary kind worn by travelers._

The hands of Big Hat Logan trembled as he gripped the book and furiously turned over the pages, he knew where the pages he needed were, of course he did, he'd read the book countless times in the time he had spent here. The Duke's Archives were a truly wondrous places, filled with more books than he had ever seen in one place, and even the vast amount of books back in the academy was a poor comparison to this. It also helped that the material covered here was far more than he had ever seen in his entire life, he could spend his entire life here, and still not even make a dent in the knowledge that was stored here. Considering he was an Undead who could possibly live for centuries longer than the average human lifespan, that was certainly something.

Surrounding him were numerous books, all of them turned to pages that deal with the truths he had come across only recently. It was amazing how much he had learned in such a short time, reading through the dozens of books Seath the Scaleless had gathered, possibly from kingdoms around the globes. Who knows how far his influence had reached. Whenever a book went missing from the library back home, was that just some lazy student not returning it, or had Seath arranged for it to be stolen and added to his own collection of knowledge. Whatever the reason, he now felt as though he had an understanding of the great dragon.

Seath had been blind, he had no eyes, and many in the kingdom, despite his position as duke to Lord Gwyn, thought him insane, clearly mad. Most people tended to avoid the Duke's Archives in fear that they would be abducted and would have been experimented on. But as Logan read, he could truly understand what had been going through Seath's mind; He may not have had eyes, but he might as well have been the only one who could truly see things for how they were, and he was not actually insane, his mind was more clear than anyone else.

He was the only one able to comprehend the way of the world, what truly slept beyond the veil of reality that most mortals knew. Seath was able to understand the eldritch truth of the world.

Standing up onto legs that he had not used for a long time, Logan made his way to the out of the room and into the larger halls. He made sure to cast the proper spells on him, to make him invisible and to muffle his footsteps so that the crystallized Hollows and Channelers wouldn't see him, he had no desire to waste time with those creatures. Before long he found himself at the bonfire, sitting alone on the small balcony, and looked out into the courtyard, and to the Crystal Caves.

There, resting atop the crystal spires, was the giant creature that no one could see, whose presence would be enough to drive most men mad.


	129. Traveling Merchant

**Traveling Merchant**

 _Hat and coat worn by merchants from Lanafir, where blue represents knowledge, and while eagles are normally a symbol of strength, in Lanafir they symbolize wealth._

 _Lanafir is the farthest land to the south and follows a strict edict of isolationism. The rare visitor from Lanafir is always a bit odd._

Magerold dusted off the blanket and began to set down his goods and wares around him. This was a safe corner of the castle to set up, not too far from the bonfire, but far enough out of the way the castle's knights and from the fight clubs that would happen on the bridge outside from time to time. If anyone needed his services, than they knew where to find him, though for the moment, he had wished that no one would coming looking for him. After he had been certain that his shop was presentable, he reached into one of the larger bags he had, just out of sight, hidden behind one of his armory boxes, and carefully pulled out the most cherished item he had.

He held the petrified egg in his arm, gently setting it down on the ground before him, and he took his time in admiring the treasure. It was cool to the touch, and smooth, despite the cracks in it, and he was certain that this was the real thing, he had seen a multitude of replicas in his life, but this was genuine. In his travels, he had gotten good good at spotting the fakes, telling them apart from the real thing, like that man, Benhart was it, swinging around that great big fake, going on about how proud he was of having a sword made of pure moonlight.

It had been good to laugh like that when he was certain that he had long since gone.

The Undead who had given this to him had said that he had taken it from the Dragon Shrine, far to the east, at the end of the kingdom, just at its edge. It had amazed him to think that the rumors he heard about that place were true, that it actually existed, he certainly needed to pay that place a visit when he had the opportunity. Maybe the next time that traveler came around he could try and convince them to tell him exactly where he could find the entrance to the Dragon Shrine, and how exactly he could get in there. For the best maybe, he was getting a bit tired of this place anyway.


	130. Moon Butterfly

**Moon Butterfly**

 _Clothes made from the wings of the rare moon butterfly. Poisons those who approach its wearer._

 _Little is known about the moon butterfly, which only appears on full-moon nights in winter. Some say the butterfly is a magical being, and its larvae have never once been spotted._

The man crouched through the forest, ducking around the trees, trying to make as little noise as possible through the thick snow. His breath was visible in front of his face as the moonlight shined through the crystals that hung briefly in the air before vanishing all together into the night air, and kept his ear open. The sounds of the night were plentiful, the wind blowing through the trees, while owls and wolves could be heard hooting and howling in the distance, but those were sounds that he was uninterested in hearing, so he carefully listened, ignoring all the sounds but he was looking for.

It was then that he heard it, a sparkling noise out there, just in front of him. Moving slowly he made his way around the until he could finally see what it was he was looking for, a bright shade of orange amongst the dark trees and sky, high above him. Be as silent as he could, he raised his arms and aimed his bow right at the creature's body. When he was confident in his shot, he let loose an arrow, and a moment it pierced the Moon Butterfly's body. A terrible scream sounded through the air and the butterfly flew into the air, each flap of its mighty wings created enough of a blow back to blast away all the snow in the area, and almost enough to knock him back.

He took another shot, this time hitting it in the underbelly as it took off into the air. The Moon Butterfly then dove down, knocking down trees as it searched for him, but he continued to lay low, trying to remain hidden as best he could. If it found him, that would certainly mean the end to him. Suddenly the air around the butterfly lit up, and numerous rays of magic bombarded the land, exploding trees and rocks, a number of them almost hitting him, and one striking the ground at his feet. He let out a yell as he was tossed into the air, signaling the creature to his presence.

When he stood up, the Moon Butterfly was coming down on him. With the way things had played out, he very much doubted he could kill with while leaving the wings intact.


	131. Throne Watcher, Throne Defender

**Throne Watcher, Throne Defender**

 _Armor worn by the Throne Watcher, and Throne Defender._

 _The Watcher waited by the throne for ages, while the Defender stood. Will their wait be worth the while?_

King Vendrick had not told them what it was they would be assigned, but they had volunteered for this duty all the same. In the recent weeks there had been a heavy tension in the castle, most felt that it was had stemmed from the recent battle with the giants, making their way into the kingdom, or from there recent scourge of Undead, but many of Vendrick's higher ranks soldiers knew otherwise. There had been talk, hushed whispers behind closed doors, that the King had planned to leave, fleeing through the King's Passage, but for what purpose remained unknown for the time. Many of the knights had known that they would have gone with him, from the simple foot soldier to Velstadt himself, they all would have followed him.

When the King has asked to speak to them, alone, they were not certain what he would want to talk to them about. They had not expected him to bring them to the lowest rooms of the castle, to the large door that had never been opened for all they the time they had serviced the kingdom, only to open it. Following behind their king, following behind him on the stone path in the expansive darkness that surrounded before he led them to a single room, with a large, ash-covered rock on the other end of a dark pit, filled with inactive golems.

"This is what she wants," he said aloud. "A way to ensure her own chosen path for the world. I have tried my best to find a way to unshackle the world from its fate, but I always met with failure, and it is now that I realize how much of a fool I was, thinking I could do such a thing. Even now, with Nashandra bearing down on me, I still find myself helpless.

They looked to each other, uncertain, surprised that of the way was speaking of the queen.

"She must not be allowed to take this throne, so I set up as many obstacles between her and it as I possibly can, and I have selected you two as the find wall. Should all else fail, you two are tasked with making sure that no one take this throne." That had been their duty, and they had not even thought of refusing it. King Vendrick left, leaving them behind, sealing the door behind him.

They then waited, standing before the throne, with tireless patience, for the day when someone or something came to this secret place.


	132. Cale

**Cale**

 _Armor of a light Mirrah foot soldier. Belonged to Cale the Cartographer._

 _Apparently Cale procured this inexpensively second-hand, but it's surprisingly well-made._

The mansion is spacious, and is surprisingly intact when compared to the other few houses in the village, which were derelict at best. This house however was still fine and presentable, something that he could live in comfortably, and he considered himself lucky to have moved in, though there wasn't much of a competition to buy it since the only other two residents of Majula at this point were that woman dressed in green, constantly watching over the bonfire by the seaside cliff, and a talking cat, neither of which seemed interested in housing in particular.

He had tried to speak to the woman, who had refused to give him a proper name, "The Emerald Herald" was what she referred to herself, and overall wasn't too interested in helping him in his research.

"There haven't been too many maps of Drangelic to survive the ages," he had said. "And many of the ones that we do have tend to be inconsistent with one another. I want to try and map out this land, in order to make traveling to it much easier."

"Then go, explore it for yourself," she had replied. "I cannot give you any answers that you cannot find for yourself."

She hadn't said much beyond that, so he was forced to return to the mansion.

There was something about this place that had amazed him other than its condition, though he had trouble trying to figure it out. It held an impressive selection of books, though he had failed to understand most of them, as they dealt with and explored topics that were too far over his head, degrees of science and magic that were just too advanced and complicated for him to properly grasp. So he had ended up leaving them alone for the most part. He later grew very uncomfortable around them, like there was something else too them that greatly unnerved him, so he chose to try and avoid that room as much as he could.

What really captivated him for the most part was the map in the basement. It was large and stone, and seemed to take bits and pieces of the many inaccurate maps he had come across, and it made him think that this was the one accurate map he had ever come across of this kingdom. He had obsessed over it, memorizing every bit of it, all the details etched into the stone, to make certain it was genuine, but had no means to check if it was so. The only real option would be to travel the kingdom, to make a map of his own, but he found it difficult to do.

There was just something about this map...


	133. Black Dragon

**Black Dragon**

 _An eerily-shaped helmet spoken of in legend, crafted with scales of the Black Dragon._

 _The Black Dragon was long considered a mere legend, but this helm proves its existence._

Someone was coming, he could tell. The drakes that lived around the aerie had been most restless than usual, meaning that there was someone making their way through the stone towers in the sky, heading right for the shrine, and that it would only be a matter of time before they came up here, to meet with the Ancient Dragon itself. They had already gone through ordeal of going through the drakes, but could they get through the trials that the Dragon Shrine had waiting for them? He looked to his right, and then to his left, and admired the line of members of the Dragon Remnants who remained in the Shrine, to better understand Him. They would not interfere in the battles set against the traveler, unless of course they decided to act in an unfavorable manor, if the traveler tried to run away, or cheat, or even bring in help, the Remnants would step in and show them no mercy until they had gotten the point.

Reaching up, he traced a hand along the dark-bronze armor on his chest, and he could feel the faint sensations, as though he was touching his own skin. This armor was special, it had properties to it that no other armors could have, nothing that could be reproduced in any forge, not by any blacksmith, but it was something old. If he let his mind wander for a long time, thinking of nothing and clearing his thoughts entirely, he could sweat he could experience visions, of a very ancient time. He could see an expanse of endless gray fog, deeps crags, and towering arch-trees, all of it gray and never changing.

Then there was fire, and lightning, and decay, and everything began to change, something that had never happened before, and the world took on a new shape, and for the first time ever things were different now. He could remember rage and anger, burning down cities with black fire, wiping out entire groups of the most skilled soldiers that had been sent to end his terror. None of them succeeded however, they all fell to the endless calamity.

But then there was the pain in his wing, and he fell to the earth, something only one person alive could possibly do. Then there was a challenger, a single lone traveler who had tried to stand up against them, only to be incinerated the moment they charged in. They returned however, after every death, each time causing more and more injury, surviving longer and...

The traveler is coming, he can see them at the bottom of the steps, making their way up the temple with every step. It was time to see if they could get pass him.


	134. Ivory King

**Ivory King**

 _Armor of the Ivory King of Eleum Loyce._

 _The Ivory King kept his countenance from his people. The Knights of Loyce dutifully followed suit, never unhinging their helmet in public view._

 _The land of Eleum Loyce was a vast rampart built to contain the ancient Chaos. The Ivory King placed his throne upon the very mouth of Chaos, and served as the first line of defense._

Loud, pained screamed erupted through the air, heavy against the sounds of sword clashing against foes and spells being cast. The Ivory King raised his sword to block the blow of the massive demon, ugly and fat, its body constantly burning, halting the massive weapon as it was swung down on him, causing the demon to growl and roar from deep within its belly. He then pushed off the weapon, throwing the demon off of its feet before he plunged his sword into its stomach. Suddenly the entire front of the demon froze up into a solid block of ice, creating spires from the stomach as he withdrew his sword from it, and the demon screamed as it tried to stand back up, but the Ivory King was quick to silence it.

As the demon's body turned to cinder and steam, the Ivory King looked forward, beyond the foe and to the towering flaming gates before him, and behind him he could hear the battles between his soldiers, his loyal knights as they fought off the chaos monsters that continued to spawn from the fiery portals around them. He knew this was the only thing that could be done in this situation, and it wasn't even a permanent solution, but with how bad things had gotten, he knows that this is the only thing they can do at the moment.

He had only hoped that his dear Alsanna would be able find a way in the future to put a stop this.

Slowly he approached the gates, his sword glowing alight with an icy cold, but as he came closer to the fires he could feel the intensity of the heat through his armor, until his body itself was ablaze. His hands touched the gate, a wall of flame that was able to physically push against him, but even so he managed to force his way through it, breaching it and was consumed by the fires. It was all around him, covering every inch of his armor, even burning him to his very core, it was the most painful and excruciating thing he had ever experienced in his entire existence. This fire was different than what he had been facing until this point, this was darker somehow, corrupted, and he only hoped that his soul would survive long enough.

A dark shape then appeared against the intense light of the fire, and he struggled to reach it, every movement exhausting him, but he pushed himself to meet it even so. Eventually, it came into view, and he could see a person, cloaked in a dark robe, fires dancing along its hands, but as he made to reach for it, it was consumed in a brilliant blast of light, and the Ivory King found himself dwarfed by a creature made of light with long and thin limbs and wings, creating a warped melodic sound. It then swung at him, sweeping its arms around while geysers of fire and lava erupted all around him, but Ivory King, even though he was completely engulfed in fire, made to defend himself.

Soon, however, all he knew was fire and chaos.


	135. Varangian

**Varangian**

 _Armor worn by the Varangian that terrorized nearby seas._

 _The coastline stretches far in northern Drangleic. Beyond this northern sea is an unexplored continent, said to be home of things inhuman._

The air was thick and damp, and water sloshed around floor of the cargo hold of the boat, and the Varangian prisoners pulled at their shackles, trying desperation to free themselves from the restraints placed upon them. It had been well over a day since their ship was attacked by the one that sailed under the flag of Drangleic, under King Vendrick, and had been entirely destroyed, sunken to the bottom of the sea. The crew members, who had survived, a third of the original men, pulled from the choppy oceans and stuck them below deck, the captain declaring that they were under arrest for their crimes against the kingdom. They were beaten and chained up by the Drangleic sailors and their guards before they were forced down below and made to wait before they were taken back to a port.

The Varangians however were not a people to be easily dissuaded, and spent the hours they had, under the watch from the guards, carefully picking at the locks of the shackles, and readying the knives they had hidden in their boots. They waited for the perfect moment to strike, but with the constant eye of the guard, and the quality of the locks on them, they found it difficult to move their work along. Eventually they could hear the boat slow down and dock, and they could hear the crew above them becoming more active. Wherever it was that they were being dragged to, they had arrived.

They were quick, and were able to easily take out the two guards, taking possessions of their swords, and then silently made their way up the stairs, and to the closed door that would take them out to the deck, and to the Drangleic sailors and soldiers who were busying about it. Opening the door they rushed out, catching the ship's crew by surprise and were quick to dispatch a number of them, and to them victory was quickly to be in their grasp.

There was then a sudden scream as one of the Varangians was thrown into the air, blood pouring from the gaping wound in his chest. The others turned to where he had been thrown from and they all froze in terror as they saw the creature standing on the upper deck. A tall lizard-monster, more than twice their own heights, wearing armor, with four long arms, each one holding a long weapon; two curved swords, one warped blade, and a spiked club. The Varangians stood uncertain of the creature, unsure what it was, but with a command of the ship's captain, it attacked, trying to catch it from behind, but were met with the nasty surprise that the second set of arms belonged to a second torso secured to the back of the monster, the second head staring at the attackers.


	136. Bloated (Sorcerer) Head

**Bloated (Sorcerer) Head**

 _The head of an Oolacile resident whose humanity went wild after being devoured by the Dark of Manus, Father of the Abyss._

 _The bloated head is fissured, the cracks lined with innumerable tiny red eyeballs with a hard outside and mucous-filled inside, accented by protruding brain parts, no sane person could ever wear it. It is lightly enchanted, suggesting that it may have belonged to a sorcerer._

The man stumbled forward, tripping over his own feet, and trying to reach for something to stop his falls, but at best his hands could only blindly and wildly scrape his fingers against the brick and stone walls. He crashed to the ground and began to wildly convulse, spittle and pained gurgles erupting from his throat as he brought his hands to his head, nails scraping at the skin and hair of his scalp. Another scream caught his attention, and his eyes turned in his skull to look in the direction where it came from, but all he could see was the darkened remains of the city, steeped in a thick shadowy blackness. The buildings were toppled over, having fallen to their sides and against the cliff walls, decayed by the invading dark. This low in the dark, it almost seemed alive, as though there was something eerily organic about the darkness that constantly seeped from the chasms far below the city.

He didn't know what had been done down there, what it was that the royal family had been doing in the lowest reaches of the city, but all he could recall was how one day the dark erupted from the depths, swallowing everything in its path, and now the city was nothing like it once was, just a twisted, horrible parody of the home that had been his.

Muttering to himself, he began to bang his head head to the ground, gripping at the stone and brick as he slammed his head down with heavy and wet thuds. The pain in his head was getting worst with each moment, and he needed it to stop, no matter what, and the pain he was causing to himself was something that paled in comparison to what was happening inside his skull. Screams could be heard in the dark, wild and primal screams, filled with anger and fear, and as the minutes pass they begin to sound less and less human.

There was then a cracking noise, and something warm and wet began to run down his face. The pain was beginning to less now, becoming much more bearable than before.


	137. Warrior-Hard Leather

**Warrior/Hard Leather**

 _A sturdy helm made of iron. Very common type of protective gear, it provides a sound level of defense._

 _It is wise to wear a sturdy form of head protection against arrows and other physical threats._

Everything smelled like shit. There was no real polite way of phrasing it, but considering that this was a sewer for the city above, as well as Anor Londo, it was the only way to really put it. He had come down to this horrible and awful place because he had heard that there were valuables down here, then again, in this day and age, it seemed like every nook and cranny was rumored to have something important in it. He didn't know how genuine most of these rumors were, and how many of them were just made up just so some poor adventurer could end up wandering around in circles until their either gave up or died in a hole somewhere. The again, maybe that was what he was, because he found himself in this shit hole because someone had told him that treasures could be found deep in the sewers.

He sloshed through the waters running along his ankles, making his way to the side path, trying to ignore the giant rats and the slime creatures who seemed to be eating away at the brick walls. His own sword and armor had been covered in much and the blood of Hollows and rats, but he made his way though the winding sewers, before he found himself stepping into a large and open room. For the first time in days, he took a deep breath, happy to be out of the tight corridors of the sewers and into a room like this, with sunlight streaming from a giant gap in the ceiling, leading out to the outside and daylight. Soon enough, he walked down the stairs and into the space, water trickling past his boots as it made its way to the drop off at the other side of the room.

He was about to make his way there when he saw something come over the edge, poking over the falling waters. To him, it looked like some sort of purple crocodile, the light shining off its scales giving it an oily look to it as sniffed the air. It was actually kind of cute, he though.

Then it began to crawl up, and he could see that it's body was much larger than he thought it was, and then the body just kept going, and going until he was faced with a giant monster with long wings, small tattered wings, and an underbelly lined with sharp and horrible teeth.


	138. Catarina

**Catarina**

 _Distinctively shaped helm worn by the Knights of Catarina._

 _Outside Catarina, it is often ridiculed for their onion-like shape, infuriating the proud knights, but the masterfully forged curved design makes it very effective for parrying. The old tales speak of brave Catarina knights wearing this armor as they rushed courageously into battle._

In his many years as a knight, defending his homeland of Catarina, and then later traveling around the continent until his journey had brought him here, to Lordran, Siegmeyer had seen many things. He had met many interesting people, vile monsters, and grand vistas, all of which was something that made his adventurer's heart swell every time he looked back on it, but there was one thing that he had not expect to see. It was something that he had never wanted to see out here, in this dangerous land of the undead, where every step could lead to potential danger.

Sieglinde sat next to him, the bonfire burning brightly before them, her helm removed and placed at her feet, while his was merely flipped open, the top half hinging backwards. The crestfallen knight, that sad man, was there, but he usually didn't bother to poke around in other peoples' business.

"I am so sorry that you had to come here, dear little Lin," Siegmeyer said, his voice heavy. "You're too young to have gone through the things you've been through, and to be Undead now, you deserved father better that."

"But Father," Sieglinde said softly, looking her father in the eyes. "I am not Undead."

"What?" the man asked, shocked. "But then why? What would posses you to come here? The journey here would have been incredibly dangerous, and Lordran itself is incredibly more so. I have died a number of times getting here, but I would revive at a bonfire, but you? You cannot be allowed single death, otherwise that you be it for you!"

"I knew this when I decided to come here," she said, looking more tired than he could remember her looking, looking older than she actually was.

"Then why? What on earth would possess you to come here? Certainly it cannot be to convince me to return to Catarina? That simply cannot be, not after what happened and-"

You killed me, was what he was about to say. He didn't though, he did not wish to place that guilt on her shoulders.

"I came here because I needed to speak with you, Father, there's something I need to tell you, it's about Mother."

Seigmeyer found himself holding his breath.

Afterward, he was not surprised, his wife had always had a weak constitution, prone to illness, and he knew one day she would not recover, but the news still left an empty feeling in his chest. He then spent the next few days with his daughter, staying close to Firelink Shrine, catching up with her and learning of her adventures while telling her of his own. It was good, he felt, as he had not spent this much time with his daughter in many, many years. In the end, it left him feeling drained, and his desire to pick up his sword became less with each passing day. Was this really the end for him? Had the final words from his wife had that much of an affect on him?

No... He couldn't end it like this... One last adventure.


	139. Alonne Knight-Captain

**Alonne Knight/Captain**

 _Armor worn by the Alonne Knights and their captains._

 _The bonds, and accomplishment, of the Alonne Knights, who served the Old Iron King, were mightier than the land's iron, their armor created with an advanced casting technique. They remain solid, and handsomely crafted. The design is styled after the armor worn by an unusual knight who trained the Iron King's men in the sword. He was said to have deserted his liege after bearing witness to his descent into depravity._

 _But in the end the knights were subsumed by the flames that brought the castle down._

The rows of knights bowed to their knees as the two individuals entered the room, one was the king, and the other was their king, both were men that they had sworn their very lives to protect and server even if it meant that it could cost them their lives. They then stood up, all in unison and gave their salutes as the great men passed between them, making their way through the grand hall and on their throne room, speaking amongst themselves as they did so, the Iron King's voice, naturally loud and booming, while Sir Alonne spoke in even, hushed tones.

As they made their way further into the hall, the Iron King began to speak with more energy, going into detail about their latest conquest in acquiring land for the purposes of mining them for the rich iron deposits. Harvest Valley was supposedly thick with the ore, and already the King was beginning to detail his plans to have the most talented artisans in the world create some of the most exquisite statues, starting off with an iron dragon that would make the bull idol in Iron Keep look like a toy in comparison. Alonne then began to voice his concern to the King, asking if such a thing was really needed when the resources could be used on more useful things, but to this the king laughed. What else would be better for the iron than to expand the grandiose of his castles, to let the world know how much power he had compared to how little they had? Nothing would be greater than to have something like that.

They then began to argue, as they entered the throne room, the knights closing the doors behind them to allow them time to speak in private, but it was soon that afterward that they could hear the Iron King's roaring voice even through the thick iron walls and doors. Arguments like this had recently become common place between the two, and the knights wondered where this would lead their king and master.


	140. Black-Judgment

**Black/Judgment**

 _Robe worn by pardoners serving Velka, the Goddess of Sin. The pardoners attire is uniformly black in color and said to be imbued with Velka's mystical power, which provides resistance against all manner of magic._

 _A mask honoring an ancient goddess. Sin was said to be her domain, but the name of this goddess is long forgotten. Little is known about what purpose the mask served, only that it was worn by a person of great authority._

The woman knelt down next to the child, small and pale and frail, whispering sweet nothings into her ears, stroking the feathery hair atop her head. She was afraid, and lonely in this cold and dark world, but the woman told her that it was safe, that in here, no one could harm her, and she could be out of reach from the beings that would sooner end her life because they feared what she was, and the power that she possessed, Life Drain. The gods feared it, but she had saved her, and convinced them to keep her here, in a prison created by by the greatest artist ever known. She would need her one day, the woman said to the child, that she would have to remain in her, in this cold and dark world, until it was time for the rulers of the world to change. Things were being set into place, and already she had met someone who too did not like what the gods had said, a mighty man who wore stone, who hated the dragon that the gods allowed to do as he pleased, no matter how horrific. She told the child that one day, soon, the world would change, and she would guide it by the hand.

This was the last time the woman ever saw the child, the poor little halfbreed.

Years passed, and the woman was right, the world changed, for better worse it had changed, just not in the way she suspected. The gods left, the cowards and liars, leaving the world open for anyone to take, and so she sought out the Cursed to take it for themselves, but in the end it was all for naught. The world could not be so easily steered, and it ignored her own wishes.

In the end, she supposed, so long after she had spoken to the child, did she realize the way of the world, now that she was a relic to it. Once truths and facts were now mere bed time stories, and the mighty gods she had known were now nothing more than legends, and while she had made it out better than most of them, she still lacked the power and followers she once had.

And so the world continued to turn.


End file.
